


God of Broken Things

by epsilonargus



Series: God of Broken Things [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 6th year AU, Enemies to Lovers, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsilonargus/pseuds/epsilonargus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[6th Year AU] Draco is having a miserable year - and it certainly doesn't help that Potter is following him around all the time. After a fistfight with Potter (the speccy git started it, of course), he finds a mysterious map in his bag and that sets him on a course of action that can only end in devastation between Potter and him.</p><p>- ‘What have you done to me, Malfoy?’ Potter whispered. ‘I want to punch you, but I want to snog you at the same time. Did you Imperius me?’ -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, this story has taken me on a roller coaster! I have to thank the mods for giving me such a MEGA extension, and to my beta Diana for being the most patient beta in the world (I know I have a terrible relationship with deadlines).
> 
> Also thanks to snowgall for the great prompt! I've always wanted to do a 6th year AU. Hope you like what I came up with (:
> 
> To my readers, please leave a comment or kudos, or if you prefer, you can head over to LJ (http://dracotops-harry.livejournal.com/323282.html) to drop a comment!
> 
> EDIT (2/5): Plus, this is only Part 1; please watch out for Part 2 soon :)

The pain was dazzling. Draco could not breathe, his mind whited out: the entirety of his being reduced to the searing on his left forearm. As swiftly as the pain seized him, it dissipated into a dull throbbing as the Dark Lord lifted his wand.

The Dark Mark was jet-black against his pale skin, the skin raised and reddened around it: the grinning skull with the protruding snake tongue.

Draco regarded it dispassionately, thinking, _The Dark Lord has incredibly tacky taste, doesn’t he_. Naming himself the Dark Lord, having a skull-and-snake calling card, skulking around in black robes – Merlin, it was a bit much. There was no attempt at elegance and subtlety at all.

Looking up from his branded arm, Draco met Lord Voldemort’s snake-like red eyes, and was inexplicably overcome with the desire to laugh. _This_ was the man he had bound himself to, the man he must call _Master_ when he had been brought up to believe a Malfoy would lower his head to no one.

‘I trust you will not disappoint me, Draco,’ his lord drawled, leaning back into his winged armchair. The chair was an antique Malfoy inheritance from the fifteenth century, but seeing the way Lord Voldemort had swept into the Manor and claimed it for the Death Eater headquarters, there was little doubt everything was _his_ now.

‘You must not displease me like your father did,’ the Dark Lord continued.

Draco’s eyes turned inexorably to the crumpled figure quivering on the ground to his left. Lucius Malfoy had fallen like the walls of a citadel under the assault of a hundred thousand stone-hurling catapults.

A shiver rippled through the circle of watching Death Eaters. Aunt Bellatrix’s bone-white face shone out of the darkness, lit by her fervour and fury; she had laughed and clapped and begged her master to inflict greater pain on Lucius during the torture. Beside her, Narcissa Malfoy had stood silent and tight-lipped as an Easter Island moai, her features carved in bedrock by ancient Polynesian wizards.

She spoke only once: a half-strangled gasp when the Dark Lord bid Draco to step forward to receive his Dark Mark, her hand already reaching out. Draco strode resolutely away from her, away, away until he was standing before his lord, offering his pale smooth skin to be marred.

‘You will learn what I did around your age, boy,’ Lord Voldemort said, his slash of a mouth tightening at the corners. ‘The sins of fathers must always be corrected by the sons.’

Draco stood before his master, the Dark Mark shiny as freshly spilled blood, and knew that the sins his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had etched into him could never be erased.

And he would have to die for them.


	2. Bargaining with Borgin

**_\- Chapter One -_ **

**Bargaining with Borgin**

 

Mother was furious with Draco. She was frigidly polite, wielding civility honed to cutting point to skewer him. It made him uneasy, knowing that Mother was miffed, but _he_ was frustrated that she was angry. They both knew he hadn’t a choice and over his (soon-to-be) dead body was he going to involve her in a plan doomed to fail.

Draco peered at Mother from the corner of his eye as Madam Malkin fussed with the hem of the dark green robes he was trying on. Mother had insisted that Draco made a new set of robes to replace the ones he had grown out of over the summer; when he would have the occasion to wear them, Mother knew best.

She had firmly attached herself to Draco’s trip to Diagon Alley. Of course, it would be perfectly fine if all he was planning on getting were books. Now, he would have to think of a way to shake her off.

Mother was gazing at the surrounding racks, pointedly ignoring Draco’s look.

Irritation crawled beneath his skin, goading him to say: ‘I’m not a child, in case you haven’t noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping _alone_.’

Mother gave him an unimpressed look. Without speaking, she had managed to make Draco feel even more like a petulant toddler.

Madam Malkin clicked her tongue, shaking her head. ‘Now, dear, your mother’s quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own any more,’ she straightened up, pushing pins along Draco’s right shoulder, ‘it’s nothing to do with being a child –’

Distracted by her own babbling, the nosy parker stuck a pin into Draco. He yelped, pulling away from her. ‘Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you!’

He stormed around the rack to the mirror, furious with himself for taking Mother’s bait. How could he say he wasn’t a child when he _was_ behaving like a complete brat? He scowled at his reflection. He had to admit that the robes were nice, even if the expense was completely unnecessary.

The Galleons could be better spent bribing the Azkaban guards, those who were wizards, to secretly give thicker blankets and clean robes to Lucius Malfoy. After receiving his lord’s punishment, Father had been sent back to suffer the rest of his Azkaban sentence; the wizard prison was the first institution to fall to Lord Voldemort.

A slight movement caught Draco’s eye and he saw Potter, Weasley and Granger reflected in the mirror. Weasley was wearing his usual gormless look, face screwed up in distaste. Granger grimaced slightly, glancing at Potter. She had a black eye and looked utterly absurd.

Potter was staring straight at Draco, green eyes piercing. Potter always had a way of looking at Draco as if he had scoured every inch of Draco’s soul and found every aspect of him utterly loathsome. Draco found himself shaking, pushed off-balance by Potter’s sudden appearance.

‘If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,’ he said, grateful that he sounded cool and aloof.

Potter’s eyes flashed, his face arrested by fury. He and his faithful sidekick whipped out their wands as Madam Malkin hurried out.

‘I don’t think there’s any need for language like that!’ she gasped. ‘And I don’t want wands drawn in my shop, either!’

Granger was whispering quickly in Potter’s ear, eyeing Draco with disdain. Potter frowned slightly, shrugging off her hand. He kept his wand pointed at Draco’s chest.

‘It’s not worth it,’ she said, loud enough for Draco to hear.

‘Yeah, like you’d dare do magic out of school,’ Draco sneered. ‘Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers.’

‘That’s quite enough!’ Madam Malkin snapped, looking over her shoulder at Mother. ‘Madam – please –’

Mother stepped out, looking severely displeased. Draco could tell she was unhappy with _him_ too, for inciting a scene with Harry Potter in the heart of Diagon Alley. Well, what was he supposed to do? Pissing Harry Potter off was simply something he did, whether he liked to or not.

‘Put those away,’ Mother said coldly to Potter and Weasley. ‘If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.’

 _Oh, brava, Mother!_ No one could wear false power like fancy ball robes quite like Narcissa Malfoy.

But of course, Potter was having none of that. If anything, Mother’s words further stoked his ire. He stepped forward, a sneer on his face.

‘Really?’ the prat mocked. ‘Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?’

Madam Malkin burst into protests, flapping her hands uselessly at Potter and his cronies.

Draco stared at Potter in disbelief. There was pure venom in Potter’s words. Potter had become taller over the summer, nearly as tall as Draco now, but somehow, Potter seemed … narrower, compressed. There was something great and overwhelming Potter had crushed within him, sealed off within that tall, lean frame, threatening to spill over. Draco caught a sense of imminent danger.

‘I see that being Dumbledore’s favourite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter,’ Mother sallied forth valiantly. ‘But Dumbledore won’t always be there to protect you.’

The familiar cold numbing fear lapped at Draco at the mention of Dumbledore. He clenched his fists, eyes fixed on Potter’s face. Potter’s attention was focused on Narcissa.

‘Wow … look at that …’ He made a show of gazing around the empty shop. ‘He’s not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!’

Draco snarled, taking a step forward but tripping over the hem of his robe. Weasley gave a shout of mocking laughter.

‘Don’t you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!’ Draco shouted.

Mother seized his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Draco. I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.’

That great, dark thing locked up in Potter reared up; Potter’s face was fixed in a hideous expression of mingled pain and rage. He raised his wand higher and Draco saw the intent to hurt clear in his eyes. For a moment, Draco was genuinely afraid – afraid of _Harry Potter_.

Granger grabbed Potter’s arm, her face reflecting Draco’s alarm. ‘Harry, no! Think … you mustn’t … you’ll be in such trouble …’

Madam Malkin, caught in the middle, retreated to the familiar territory of being a saleswoman. She bent over Draco’s left arm, murmuring, ‘I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just –’

She was raising the sleeve. Draco slapped her hand away, cold and scared. Potter was right _there_.

‘Ouch! Watch where you’re putting your pins, woman! Mother – I don’t think I want these any more!’ He yanked the robes over his head, taking care with his left arm, and threw them onto the floor at the dithering old seamstress’ feet.

‘You’re right, Draco,’ Mother said, glancing at Granger. ‘Now I know the kind of scum that shops here … we’ll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting’s.’

They strode out, the door slamming shut behind them. Draco could feel Potter’s eyes boring into his back as they went. Mother took Draco’s arm, pulling him close to her. They walked down the crowded street, looking purposeful and self-important.

‘You are to stay away from Potter,’ she said to him, her voice pitched low; he could hear the worry in her voice. ‘There is something not quite right with the boy. You stay away from him.’

‘Potter and I are hardly friends, Mother _,_ ’ Draco said wryly. ‘You have no cause for worry on _that_ account.’

Mother gripped him tighter. ‘You cannot afford to be foolish anymore, Draco! You’ve always been … obsessed with Potter, no, there is no use denying it, I am your mother, I know. You stay away from Potter and do what you must. Do you hear me?’

Draco sighed, determined to continue playing the part of a teenager exasperated with a parent’s meddling. ‘Yes, Mother.’

They continued onto Twilfitt and Tatting’s. The robes they eventually bought were even more expensive than the ones at Madam Malkin’s. Mother refused to pay any attention to Draco’s protests. How would it look, she wanted to know, if he _didn’t_ get any robes from Twilfitt and Tatting’s after she had declared that he would? It was sheer pureblood pig-headedness. As if Potter, Weasley and Granger would notice!

They sat down for tea at a nearby café, Mother making self-deprecating comments about her age and the toil of shopping. At least the encounter with the Golden Trio had made her forget that she was supposed to be angry with Draco. He drank copious amounts of tea, trying to swallow his nervousness. When he thought Mother was comfortable and unwary enough, he acted.

‘I need the loo,’ he said, excusing himself.

She nodded distractedly, perusing a new romance novel she had bought. Mother enjoyed books on tragic romances doomed to fail, something Draco and his father never could understand. Father, however, was always the first to buy the latest releases from the Whizz Hard Books’ Bewitching line for her.

Draco stepped into the loo and, after a few long minutes, walked out. Without looking at his mother’s table, he headed straight for the back door. The alley smelled of wet tealeaves and spoiled milk. He burrowed into his cloak and hurried along.

The streets were still fairly crowded with students bogged down with school supplies and shepherding parents. Draco kept his head down, hoping that he wouldn’t bump into anyone he knew.

He walked past that joke shop set up by the Weasley twins, unable to keep himself from staring at the horrendous shop windows. He had to bite back a smile at the _U-NO-POO_ poster. Those Weasley twins _were_ brilliant, if a bit too gaudy for Draco’s taste. He couldn’t understand their sort of insane Gryffindor bravery, but he could appreciate it.

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to consider the Weasleys. He hurried on, dogged by the uneasy feeling that he was being followed. He glanced over his shoulder before he ducked into Knockturn Alley, but saw no one.

Knockturn Alley was, obviously, completely empty. Anyone who was already on Lord Voldemort’s side was hardly likely to go wandering around here to be scooped up by the Aurors. Anyone who wasn’t and merely dabbled in the Dark Arts had already vanished into the ether.

Draco strode past dusty, dead shops. He didn’t hesitate before pushing open the door of Borgin and Burkes. The bell tinkled above his head and Borgin, who was peering down at a display case of precious stones, looked up. He blanched when he saw Draco.

‘Good afternoon, Borgin. I have a task for you,’ Draco announced; _Don’t be afraid to make the first move, Draco,_ his father always said. _Make the first move and you can control what happens next._

‘A task, sir?’ Borgin’s face twisted momentarily, realising that he had just addressed a sixteen-year-old boy with the respect due a lord.

‘Yes. Our Dark Lord has entrusted me with a great responsibility,’ Draco said, the words bitter as wormwood. ‘What that is, is of course something _you_ need not know, but I will tell you this: there is something you can do that will please the Dark Lord very much.’

‘Oh yes?’ Borgin was starting to look resentful.

Draco chose his words with care. ‘You are a purveyor of … exotic goods, things that the Dark Lord … appreciates. You have an item,’ he gestured to the large black cabinet – one of the Vanishing Cabinets, ‘that I would like to purchase from you on the behalf of the Dark Lord – assuming, naturally, that the Cabinet _works._ ’

‘Oh, it does, of course, it does, sir,’ Borgin said quickly, attracted by the scent of a potential sale. ‘And as a working Cabinet, it will not be cheap, oh no, it won’t, but of course, for _you_ , for … _him_ , I give a discount, a very attractive –’

Draco cut him off with a glare. ‘Do you think I’m a fool, Borgin? The Cabinet only works if there are _two_ of them!’

Borgin quailed, twisting his hands together. ‘Yes, but –’

‘Don’t bother trying to tell me you know where I can find a second one. _I_ know where it is,’ Draco said loftily. ‘The only problem is that it’s broken and seeing how you have a _working_ Cabinet here, I assume you know how to fix it?’

‘Possibly,’ Borgin replied reluctantly. ‘I’ll need to see it, though. Why don’t you bring it into the shop?’

‘I can’t,’ Draco said derisively. ‘It’s got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.’

Borgin swallowed nervously, wringing his hands tighter. ‘Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee anything.’

‘No?’ Draco sneered. ‘Perhaps this will make you more confident.’

He strode forward, pulling his left sleeve up. Under the faltering light in the shop, the Dark Mark appeared alive, the snake undulating across Draco’s skin. Borgin became even whiter.

‘Tell anyone,’ Draco said in a quiet, silky voice he learned from his father, ‘and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback?’ – speaking with the blind bravado his mother taught him – ‘he’s a family friend, he’ll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.’

The werewolf and a few other Death Eaters were assigned to aid Draco, much to their deepest displeasure.

‘There will be no need for –’

‘I’ll decide that,’ Draco retorted; no, Lord Voldemort had already decided that Draco needed some _minders_ to ensure he wouldn’t try to run away. ‘Well, I’d better be off. And don’t forget to keep _that_ one safe, I’ll need it once the other one is fixed.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to take it now?’ Borgin’s voice quavered.

Draco looked at him incredulously. ‘No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man,’ he spat. ‘How would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t sell it.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Borgin dipped into a low bow, his ugly face screwed up.

‘Not a word to anyone, Borgin,’ Draco warned, adding as an afterthought, ‘and that includes my mother, understand?’

‘Naturally, naturally,’ the odious wizard murmured.

Draco strode out. He couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with himself. He had after all, given his dragon-eyed mother the slip and managed to do what he had come to Diagon Alley for. He was fairly certain Borgin would obey; he had to. Now all Draco had to do was to fix the other Cabinet …

The rest of his path unfolded before him, crooked and treacherous with traps and pitfalls. He hurried on grimly, the brief glow of success disappearing into his wintry determination.


	3. Stranger's Boy

**_\- Chapter Two -_ **

**Stranger’s Boy**

 

Draco fiddled with his fork, pushing his mashed potatoes around his plate. The oily film on the gravy broke as the brown sauce swilled around his plate. Up and down the table, the other Death Eaters made polite conversation, enthusing about Quidditch teams and gossiping about upcoming social events.

Draco peered from beneath his eyelashes at his mother, who was sitting across the table next to Aunt Bellatrix. Narcissa ate mechanically, her eyes fixed on the table in front of her. Sensing Draco’s eyes, she looked up briefly, met his eyes and dropped her gaze again.

At the head of the table – where Lucius Malfoy should be – Lord Voldemort loomed. He hadn’t touched the plate set before him; Draco didn’t think the Dark Lord needed to eat. The Dark Lord was deep in conversation with his guest, a German, who spoke English like every sentence ended with an exclamation mark.

Draco studied the German surreptitiously. The man was pale and blonde – not Draco’s type, but he had the most stunning green eyes. They were like sea glass shot through with warm golden sunlight. Once or twice, Draco caught the man looking at him sideways – like right now: the German’s colourless lips curved into an arrogant smile when their eyes met.

Unease stirred in Draco’s chest. He looked to the Dark Lord’s left, where Snape sat, nodding at something Rowle was saying. Snape met Draco’s eyes and acknowledged him with a slight nod. Draco nodded back and returned his attention to his potatoes, wishing dinner would just end and he could go back to his room.

The hour scraped by torturously. Draco fled to his room. He knew that he should see it as a dishonour that he wasn’t invited to drink with the adults in the drawing room, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The candles in the cold room lit up when he entered, flooding the large square room with strong, yellow light. He fell onto his bed, staring up at the dark blue canopy. Two more weeks and he would be back at Hogwarts, where he would have to – _no_. He turned his mind firmly away from that. He would come to that when he had to.

Draco lay on his bed, his mind blank and empty.

A knock came from his door. He frowned, lifting his head. ‘Come in,’ he called, expecting Mother.

The German strode in, smirking confidently. He closed the door behind him. Draco sat up, alarmed, hand reaching into his pocket for his wand.

‘Hullo, Draco,’ the pale man said.

Dressed in grey robes, he fairly faded into the stone of the room’s walls. Only his eyes shone, beautiful and entrancing. He walked to the foot of Draco’s bed, looking utterly cocksure. Light and shadows flickered across the smooth planes of his blandly good-looking face, darkness dipping between his full lips. Draco’s stomach clenched, his disquiet fading at the sight of the man’s loose gait, open hands.

‘My name is Jonas,’ the man announced. ‘And we have sex.’

Draco blinked, bewildered. Jonas sat, the bed dipping under his weight. He placed a warm hand on Draco’s calf and smiled at him invitingly. ‘We have sex,’ he repeated, brazenly unaware of the awkwardness of his proclamation.

Draco’s leg tingled where Jonas touched him. He looked into those attractive green eyes. Jonas dimmed the lights. In the shadows, Draco could pretend the eyes were a darker shade of forest green, the precise colour he loved, so he shrugged and reached out for Jonas.

Draco had known from age six that he liked blokes when his mother gently informed him that he was so upset when a boy whose name he had forgotten chose to play with Pansy instead of him was because he had a crush on the boy. His parents, it seemed, had known he was gay before he did.

Growing up in the exclusive society of pureblood British wizards and witches, there weren’t many gay wizards around Draco’s age, so Jonas was the first man he ever had.

As Jonas pressed Draco into his bed, as he conjured lube and stretched out his arsehole in preparation for Draco’s intrusion, as Draco thrust into him, gasping wordlessly, Draco watched it all as if from a distance, his eyes half-lidded. The faltering light shaded Jonas’ hair dark and Draco imagined him in glasses.

He wasn’t Draco’s dream man, but it wasn’t to say he was a bad shag. As Draco moaned, riding the warm waves of his orgasm, for a moment, fear and apprehension were wiped away. As he came, spunk spurting deep into Jonas, he was present only in that moment of hot pleasure, staring into pretty green eyes, everything else banished into irrelevance.

Draco fucked Jonas every night over the next two weeks. The German was a wanton cockslut and often, it only took a few thrusts from Draco before he came, wailing and writhing.

They made no secret of their liaison – or rather, Jonas sat too close and paid too much attention to Draco. The other Death Eaters leered and hissed _slag_ and _tart_ whenever they passed him in the corridors of his own manor. Draco told himself he didn’t care, especially when his cock was deep in Jonas’s tight heat and he was coming so hard his mind went blank.

On the second morning after Jonas and he started sleeping together, Draco was summoned to Mother’s private sitting room for breakfast. He entered the room with great trepidation, his palms sweaty.

Narcissa’s sitting room reflected her personality precisely: creamy white walls with sky-blue floor-length curtains, blue-topped end tables with ornately carved gilded legs, regal armchairs charmed with Cushioning Spells. The paintings were landscapes by a seventeenth-century master – Black heirlooms her parents had given as part of her dowry.

Narcissa Malfoy sat in the middle, a heavy silver tray on the table to her right, a cup of tea in her hands. She was looking out the window, the weak sunlight coaxed by a Fair Weather Charm to fall over her still straight figure. Her face was set into harsh lines worn into her skin.

Draco paused, clenching his fists. Mother looked grey and washed-out. She sensed his presence and looked over at him. Her face cleared, the lines softening. She set her cup down and indicated for him to join her on the settee.

‘Mother,’ he murmured, brushing his lips against her soft cheek, breathing in her familiar scent of lavender.

‘Have some toast,’ she said, levitating a plate over to him.

‘Thank you.’

For the next few minutes, there were only the scraping of a butter knife against toast and the quiet clink of a spoon in a teacup.

‘I received a letter from our cousins in France,’ Mother said. ‘Aunt Melinda, do you remember her? We stayed in her villa when you were ten and you had so much fun playing with her three children, Victor, David and Elizabeth.’

Draco frowned, confused. ‘Er … yeah, I have a faint memory of a Victor …’

Mother nodded briskly, looking down at her plate. She was fastidiously cutting up her kippers. ‘I’m thinking of paying them a visit.’

He blinked, still lost. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes. In a few days, perhaps? Enough time to get your things ready.’

With a jolt, he realised that she meant for him to go with her.

‘But I can’t,’ he protested. ‘School is starting soon and – and … Father’s _here_.’

‘Father is _not_ here,’ Narcissa said briskly, still looking down at her food; she had yet to put a piece into her mouth. ‘Which is precisely why we should pay Aunt Melinda a visit. You know how much he disliked her. You _liked_ it – both of us did, remember? We should go before term starts. You won’t have the time to visit then.’

She looked up then and Draco’s breath stopped in his throat. Her eyes were deep and wild with despair. The raw expression on his mother’s face tore a hole in Draco’s chest, ragged and bleeding.

She was asking him to run away with her, to leave Father to suffer his fate, to leave everything behind so that he could live. No, she was _begging_ him to. Carefully, Draco reached out and covered her knife-wielding hand with his cold hand. She saw the look in his eyes and gave an angry half-sob, twisting her face away.

‘You are my _son_ ,’ Narcissa hissed. ‘You are my –’ She couldn’t say anything further, merely pressed her lips together to swallow the ugly emotions.

‘I can do it, Mother,’ Draco said quietly, ignoring the quivering in his limbs screaming to cling to Mummy. ‘I will serve the Dark Lord well.’

His mother merely stared at him. Her face was pale but her eyes were bright and shining, the blue of deep, dark ice. She didn’t say a word, only turned her palm over and held his hand tightly. They sat there for a while, not speaking, the breakfast going cold between them.

 

 

Jonas called Draco _pretty one_. Draco hated it; there was something about a fawning lover that repulsed him. He didn’t want to be told he was pretty. He wanted a lover who would murmur silly insults as he kissed Draco, rough and thorough. Not this man who cooed at Draco like he was a child to be praised.

Jonas came with a high-pitched shriek, his come slipping warm into Draco’s mouth. Draco spat and moved up, flipping the older man onto his front. Jonas hitched his arse up into the air obligingly and Draco entered in a single, smooth motion, suppressing a deep groan. Holding Jonas by his hips, Draco closed his eyes and began thrusting, the slap of skin on skin filling the air. Images flashed before his eyes: memories spliced with fantasies. Angry green eyes spitting unholy fire. A thin pale face screwed up in fury, transmuting into wild lust. Chapped pale lips parting to shout a hex, closing around Draco’s cock.

He came, mewling, back arching. He clutched Jonas to him, riding the crest of his orgasm and slowly slipping into the deeply satisfying afterglow. Jonas began to laugh, a deep rumble vibrating through his thin body.

‘My pretty one,’ Jonas murmured into the pillow and Draco’s fantasy of a dark-haired man who smiled as he said _you complete and utter prat_ broke with a dull _crack_.

He suppressed a sigh, opening his eyes and returning to a mortifying reality. Jonas reached up and pulled Draco down, murmuring nonsense as he wrapped his arms and legs tightly around Draco. He unfortunately liked to cuddle. Draco lay there, waiting for the German to let go and idly wondering what the man was doing here in Malfoy Manor in the first place, what his business with Lord Voldemort was.

He was bored, so he asked him.

Jonas, who was trailing a hand up and down Draco’s chest, paused. ‘You not know?’ he asked, surprised. ‘But you are why I give the Dark Lord the – the – how you say – the words.’

‘What?’ Draco pulled away, turning to look at the older man. ‘What do you mean?’

Those glass-green eyes stared at him. ‘The Dark Lord give me you, I give him the – the – yes, information!’

Draco’s chest was deep and hollow. He clenched his fists, drawing the blanket up his waist. ‘The Dark Lord gave me to you?’

Jonas nodded, reaching out to pull Draco back in. ‘I see you and I want you. I say to your lord, “Give me pretty one and I will bring you the man you see.” So he give me you …’

Draco didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. Jonas didn’t seem to realise anything was wrong. He simply pulled Draco in for another kiss, using too much spit and too little skill as usual. It took all of Draco’s self-control not to shove him, screaming and vomiting. Jonas pulled away, smiling down at him softly, fondly.

‘I miss you, pretty Draco,’ he said before rolling over and pulling the blankets over him; he went to sleep.

Draco lay awake for a long time, feeling cold and empty. His stomach was churning, his mind stuck.

He was the Dark Lord’s whore, to be rented out in exchange for information.

He, Draco Malfoy, was reduced to an object to be bartered.

All his life, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had told him he was their precious son. He was brilliant and smart and good at anything he put his mind to. He was their hope, they told him, and he would bring glory to the Malfoy name no matter what he chose to do because he was their son.

 _The sins of fathers must always be corrected by the sons._ Lord Voldemort’s voice stole into his mind, dry as a snake’s slithering.

It didn’t matter that he had gone willingly into Jonas’ arms. It was that the Dark Lord believed Draco was _his_ creature to throw around.

_You must not displease me like your father did._

Rage burst into Draco’s chest, raking its claws on his insides and setting him aflame. He clenched his fists, biting down hard on his bottom lip to stop from screaming. The lights in the room shattered, glass tinkering to the ground. Jonas stirred, but didn’t wake.

Draco got out of bed and went into the toilet. He didn’t notice he had stepped on glass until he was in the bath, the soles of his feet stinging in the water. He sat in the tub, watching the water swirl, pink with blood.

_You must not displease me like your father did._

Draco sat there in the cold water, shivering, until dawn broke and it was time to return to Hogwarts.


	4. Potter, Thwarted

**_\- Chapter Three -_ **

**Potter, Thwarted**

 

People stared as Draco made his way down the platform, flanked by Goyle and Crabbe. The Hogwarts Express gleamed scarlet, the steam carrying whispers from the crowd: ‘His father … a Death Eater … runs in the family … evil git …’

Draco dealt with them the way he knew best: he acknowledged them and smirked, preening as if their talk emboldened him. He was glad, however, that he had sent Mother off early. She didn’t need to deal with this bollocks.

They came to the compartment Pansy was waiting in. She beamed at Draco, pulling him in for a hug. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she exclaimed, clinging to his left arm and refusing to let go.

‘I’ve missed you too, you bint,’ he laughed, settling into the seat next to her.

Between them, Goyle and Crabbe hauled the luggage up onto the racks, Crabbe scowling at Draco. Crabbe had a none-too-subtle crush on Pans, and despite knowing that Draco was gay, he didn’t like how Pans clung to Draco. Not that Crabbe stood a chance in hell with her.

Glowing with the healthy tan she had carefully cultivated on the beaches of St Tropez, Pansy chattered away about her brilliant summer. She was, in her own way, trying to distract Draco from the nosy stares their compartment were receiving from people passing by. He sat and nodded, looking out the window at the platform.

He could just see the Weasleys from here; they were half-blocked by a crowd of Hufflepuffs. He was searching for Potter before he even realised he was. Potter stood a distance away, talking at the Weasley patriarch. Weasley was nodding slowly, Potter looking increasingly frustrated as he went on.

Draco felt a prick of unease. Arthur Weasley was, after all, the man who capably led the raid on Malfoy Manor, the one who even Lucius Malfoy was grudgingly wary of. Father didn’t regard Weasley as a genuine threat, of course, but still …

Draco thought about the way Potter had looked at him with such revulsion in Madam Malkin’s three weeks ago, the way he had stared when Draco slapped Malkin’s hand away from his left forearm. What if the prat decided to tell Arthur Weasley about his suspicions?

No … he wouldn’t. No one would think Lord Voldemort would seriously take a sixteen-year-old for a Death Eater; that was the beauty of his plan, the Dark Lord had claimed. Dumbledore’s downfall would come from the people he would never expect: his beloved students.

Whatever it was Potter was saying to Weasley, it didn’t seem he managed to convince the other man. The train’s whistle pierced the air and doors began slamming shut up and down the train. The Weasley mother beckoned to Potter. Potter went and Draco lost sight of him.

‘Draco!’ Pansy complained. ‘You’re not even listening to me.’

Draco started. ‘Oh, sorry. Just … just a little tired.’

She peered at him worriedly. ‘Oh, you do have the worst dark eye circles. Did you even sleep last night?’

‘No,’ Draco admitted, involuntarily shivering at the memory of the ice-cold water.

She frowned, but before she could question him, the door slid open and Zabini strolled in, tall, dark and handsome. Draco smiled in spite of himself; the berk always looked too damn fit.

‘Hullo,’ he said, dropping into the seat next to Goyle. ‘How were your summers?’

‘Not bad,’ Goyle said, his nose stuck in the comic he was reading about a gang of wizards defending dragons from crazy, murderous Muggles. ‘Mum’s Jobberknolls are doing well.’ Mrs Goyle bred Jobberknolls for a hobby.

‘Brilliant,’ Zabini drawled. ‘And you, Crabbe?’

Crabbe scowled. ‘None of your business, Zabini. Gimme that – I want to read it,’ he said, snatching Goyle’s comic.

Goyle frowned at him, aggrieved, but when Draco opened his mouth, shook his head, warning Draco not to make a scene. After his father’s capture, Crabbe had become surlier and a worse bully than ever. Draco suspected that Crabbe rather blamed Lucius for his father’s imprisonment, although Crabbe hadn’t the guts to say so to his face.

‘No need to be so snappy,’ Zabini said gently and turned to Pansy, whose fingers were digging into Draco’s flesh. ‘And how was _your_ summer, Pans?’

‘Pretty good,’ she said, managing to sound breezy, for which Draco felt a blaze of pride. ‘We went to St Tropez. It was very relaxing, none of Britain’s awful weather and the whole … thing about You-Know-Who.’

‘Thing,’ Zabini repeated, his gaze sliding to meet Draco’s eyes. ‘Eloquently put, Pansy my dear. Your summer went well, Malfoy?’

Draco met his dark, smouldering eyes and remembered a messy kiss that tasted of Butterbeer. Jonas was the first man he fucked, but Zabini was the first boy he kissed.

Zabini had kissed Draco in the shadows of the Slytherin common room when they were thirteen because he knew Pansy was in love with him. Draco, clueless, still harbouring a soft spot for the git from a long-dismissed crush, let him. Pansy wouldn’t speak to him for a week after that. When Draco asked Zabini point-blank why he did it, Zabini merely shrugged and replied: ‘You liked it, didn’t you?’ And Salazar slay him, Draco did.

Draco eyed Zabini, wondering what his game was now. ‘Well,’ he said with utmost delicacy. ‘I lost my virginity.’

Zabini laughed as the rest of them gaped at Draco.

‘You did! Well, congratulations, you randy blighter!’ he chortled.

‘Draco!’ Pansy gawped at him, scandalised. ‘Who was it? You prat – you should have written!’

Smirking, enjoying the looks on his friends’ faces, Draco sketched out the bare details: a German who came visiting, yes, rather good-looking, you want to know _that_ , Pansy, are you sure?

Mid-way through the conversation, a little third-year girl knocked on the door. Red-faced, she mumbled something indecipherable and thrust a scroll into Zabini’s hands. She bolted immediately after.

‘An early start to the love letters this year,’ Draco teased.

Zabini unrolled the parchment and raised his eyebrows. ‘Not a love letter, I’m afraid,’ he said, eyes flicking to Pansy. ‘An invitation from Professor Slughorn to join him for lunch.’

‘Slughorn?’ Draco frowned. ‘That name sounds familiar …’

‘Mum’s talked about him before,’ Zabini replied. ‘An old wizard with many powerful connections. Apparently, he knows Gwenog Jones.’

‘ _Oh_ , Slughorn. Yes, Father’s talked about him before … what does he want with you?’ Draco frowned.

‘Well, I’ll find out later, wouldn’t I?’ Zabini shrugged, stuffing the note into his pocket. ‘Wait a minute, why aren’t you in the Prefects’ compartment? Shouldn’t you be Prefect-ing or something?’

Draco gave a dismissive snort. ‘Being a Prefect is more trouble than it’s worth. I don’t want to spend my morning cooped with _Weasley_ and _Granger_ , listening to them be self-righteous prats. Anyway, how was _your_ summer, Zabini? At the end of the term, you were talking about travelling to Asia.’

The conversation was neatly turned away from Draco and he relaxed. It was true that being a Prefect was more trouble than it was worth. It was also true that being in Weasley and Granger’s presence made him sick. Thinking about being with the other Prefects, listening to them discuss ways to keep Hogwarts and its students safe, made the Mark on his forearm burn unbearably.

Keeping Hogwarts safe was no longer Draco’s concern.

 

* * *

 

 

The train sped through the countryside, sliding from patch to patch of brilliant sunshiny weather. In their compartment, Draco and his friends dozed and swopped stories about the summer, sharing sweets and pretending none of them had any parents in Azkaban.

Draco caught Weasley looking in a little before lunch, his freckled face screwed up in suspicion. Draco called out: ‘Want a Chocolate Frog, Weasley? Don’t worry, I won’t charge you for it – I know you can’t afford it.’

Rather pathetic as insults went, but his friends – sans Zabini – laughed dutifully. Weasley went away after sputtering some nonsense, Granger yanking him along.

Draco bit into his Chocolate Frog and caught the look Zabini was giving him. ‘What?’ he demanded.

Zabini shrugged. ‘It’s just I never understood what you have against Weasley.’

‘He’s a blood traitor,’ Draco said automatically. ‘And he’s an easy target. Do you see the way he turns red when he’s angry?’

‘Fred and George Weasley are blood traitors too, and you _like_ them,’ the dark-skinned wizard pointed out.

Now it was Draco’s turn to sputter wordlessly. Pansy and Goyle laughed. Crabbe was ignoring the whole lot of them, buried in Goyle’s comic.

‘Oh, come on, admit it – you think they’re hilarious, even if they are pranking us,’ Zabini said. ‘They are bloody brilliant bastards. They would make fantastic Slytherins, don’t you think?’

‘No, because none of us would be stupid enough to waste time pulling idiotic pranks,’ Draco retorted.

‘You _liked_ the pranks they pulled last year. You hated Umbridge,’ his friend shot back. ‘You called her a pathetic sad little gremlin who gets off on hurting people.’

Draco shrugged. He did find Dolores Umbridge a loathsome little troll. The worst thing about her was that she wasn’t breaking any rules and laws, the way she went about tearing Hogwarts down; it was all perfectly legal. Something about the way Umbridge actually enjoyed whatever she had done last year reminded him of Lord Voldemort.

His disgust with her, however, hadn’t stopped him from joining her Inquisitorial Squad; Draco was always very good at burying his morals for a little more power. His left forearm itched. He forced himself to stop scratching, putting his right hand under his leg.

Zabini was still going on about the Weasleys. ‘I think you’re jealous of Weasley.’

‘What?’ Draco raised his eyebrows. ‘I assure you I have no ambition to set up a joke shop.’

‘Not the twins,’ Zabini said impatiently as if Draco was being thick on purpose. ‘ _Ron_ Weasley. You’re jealous of him.’

Draco burst into laughter. ‘Why in the name of Merlin’s pants would I be jealous of _that_ gangly creature? He can’t even play proper Quidditch! He’s only on the team because he’s famous _Potter_ ’s friend.’

‘There!’ Zabini exclaimed, pointing a triumphant finger at Draco. ‘You’re jealous of him because he’s Potter’s friend.’

Pansy and Goyle were now laughing at the utterly flabbergasted look on Draco’s face. Zabini rolled his eyes.

‘Don’t be an overly dramatic prat. You’ve always held it against Weasley because he’s the one Potter chose to be friends with over you.’

It took Draco a few moments to corral a response. ‘Are you barmy? Did you get too much sunlight when you were at the equator?’

Zabini rolled his eyes again. ‘You are such a git.’

They dropped the topic only because Zabini had to go off to Slughorn’s compartment. Draco shook his head after Zabini was gone.

‘He’s barmy,’ he said to Pans and Goyle.

His friends exchanged a look.

‘Yeah,’ Goyle said unconvincingly.

‘Sure, Draco,’ Pansy said soothingly. ‘Come on, let’s get some lunch from the trolley.’

Lunch passed pleasantly enough. They managed to get Crabbe to participate in the conversation, mainly because Pansy was being particularly sweet and charming to him. Draco couldn’t tell if she was pretending not to know Crabbe liked her. She could be malicious, but she wasn’t to her friends, so it confused him when Pans insisted Draco lay his head down on her lap for a rest.

Goyle gave him a wide-eyed look of helplessness as Draco gave in just to get Pansy to shut up. Crabbe’s glare burned like Basilisk venom. Draco lay across two seats, placing his head awkwardly on Pansy’s lap. Her hands were soft and gentle as she smoothed his hair back, and even with Crabbe glowering at him, Draco couldn’t help but relax; Pansy’s touch reminded him of Mother.

Crabbe’s right leg was jiggling, his meaty fists tightly clenched. Before he could act on his anger, however, Zabini came back. The door jammed as he was sliding it close.

‘What’s wrong with this thing?’ He continued trying to bang it shut.

Suddenly, the door flew open, sending Zabini flying backwards onto Crabbe’s lap. Crabbe reared up in anger, dumping Zabini onto the ground. Zabini leapt up, indignant, hurling abuse at Crabbe for being a boor. Crabbe bawled back. Goyle was on his feet too, stepping up between them, hands on Crabbe’s chest, pushing him back into his seat.

For a moment, just behind Zabini, Draco thought he saw a white trainer appear and disappear in mid-air. He frowned, puzzled. He squinted, but no, there wasn’t anything there. He must have imagined it.

Goyle managed to sit Crabbe back down. Zabini huffily slammed the door shut and threw himself onto his seat. Pansy was still stroking Draco’s hair comfortingly.

‘So, Zabini, what did Slughorn want?’ Draco asked.

‘Just trying to make up to well-connected people,’ Zabini said, still eyeing Crabbe with disdain. ‘Not that he managed to find many.’

Draco frowned. ‘Who else was there?’

‘McLaggen from Gryffindor –’

‘Yeah, okay, his uncle’s big in the Ministry.’

‘– someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw –’

‘Not him, he’s a prat!’ Pansy exclaimed; Draco vaguely remembered her saying Astoria Greengrass dated Belby before.

‘– and Longbottom, Potter and that Weasley girl.’

Draco sat up. ‘He invited _Longbottom_?’

Stupid, clumsy, bumbling _Longbottom_? Draco couldn’t imagine why. The bugger was hopeless at school – well, except maybe at Herbology, Draco admitted to himself reluctantly. Still, Longbottom wasn’t exceptionally good at the subject.

‘Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,’ Zabini said dismissively; Zabini didn’t care for what he called the Gryffindor obnoxious self-righteousness, but he did not share Draco’s antipathy.

Draco persisted. ‘What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?’

Zabini shrugged.

‘Potter, precious Potter,’ Draco spat, ‘obviously he wanted a look at the _Chosen One_ , can you imagine, that’s what they’re calling him now, what complete bollocks! And that Weasley girl? What’s so special about _her_?’

‘A lot of boys like her,’ Pansy said quietly, eyes fixed on Zabini. ‘Even you think she’s good-looking, don’t you, Zabini, and we all know how hard you are to please.’

The group of them stared at her, Draco astonished by the cattiness in her voice. She flushed unattractively, but held Zabini’s gaze fearlessly.

‘Why yes, I would have asked her out if she weren’t already dating Dean Thomas,’ Zabini said coolly.

Draco winced in sympathy as Pansy withdrew, dropping her eyes to her lap. He couldn’t understand her motivation; why goad Zabini when she knew he would hurt her? In fact, why even _love_ him? Draco reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it.

‘Well, I pity Slughorn’s taste,’ he said, pulling the attention away from her. ‘Maybe he’s going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favourite of his. Slughorn probably hasn’t heard I’m on the train, or –’

‘I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,’ Zabini interrupted. ‘He asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry, he didn’t look happy and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.’

Draco’s Dark Mark seemed to flare up in response to Zabini’s words. He forced a laugh, ignoring his throbbing arm. ‘Well, who cares what he’s interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher. I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?’

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, but it was too late. His friends gawped at him.

‘What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?’ Pansy demanded, pulling at his arm.

He didn’t mean to tell them anything; he didn’t want to involve them in his affairs, but well, too late. Slughorn’s rejection stung more than he would like to admit.

‘Well, you never know,’ Draco said with forced nonchalance. ‘I might have – er – moved onto bigger and better things.’

Zabini raised his eyebrows. Goyle and Crabbe exchanged disbelieving looks. Pansy was frowning at him.

‘Do you mean – _him_?’ she asked.

Draco shrugged, his left arm aching. ‘Mother thinks it’s important for me to finish my education and I agree, but well … in the end, it might even matter how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s we get. There are … other things we must do.’

_The sins of fathers …_

Zabini was frowning at Draco now. He folded his arms across his chest, looking exceedingly unhappy. ‘And you think _you_ ’ll be able to do something for him?’

Draco met his eyes unflinchingly. ‘Maybe.’

Zabini opened his mouth, clearly about to probe further, but Draco pointed out the blackened window. The lights of Hogwarts castle were fireflies dancing in a sea of darkness. ‘I can see Hogwarts. We’d better get our robes on.’

Reluctantly, Zabini let it go, although the glare he shot Draco promised further interrogation. Pansy took a look at Draco’s closed-off face and sighed, knowing that she would get nowhere with him. She dropped his hand to reach up for her trunk.

A gasp of pain erupted from above Crabbe. Draco looked up sharply, frowning at the empty luggage rack. The others didn’t appear to hear anything, busy as they were with pulling on their robes. He turned away to dress as well, his mind working furiously.

His father had told him a rumour once: that the Potters owned a powerful magical artefact – an Invisibility Cloak. Potter couldn’t be so _stupid_ as to sneak into a compartment full of Slytherins to _eavesdrop_ , could he?

No, Harry Potter certainly could. This was the same foolhardy boy who, when he was eleven, plunged headfirst into a booby-trapped dungeon to retrieve the Philosopher’s Stone from a mad professor. Potter had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. _Sodding typical Gryffindor_.

Draco controlled his temper, managing to sound normal as he told the others to leave first; he needed to grab something from his trunk. He closed the door and dropped the blinds. With his back to the luggage rack, he palmed his wand. He could hear the sounds of chatter in the corridor outside and the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears.

He whipped around, brandishing his wand. ‘ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ’

Potter tumbled off the luggage rack, his Invisibility Cloak slipping off him as he fell. He landed with a resounding crash on the floor at Draco’s feet, his face fixed into an expression of excitement. His eyes spoken eloquently of his dismay.

Draco smiled broadly. Potter looked ridiculous, his legs curled up in foetal position, his face wearing a nicer expression than he ever had in Draco’s presence. Draco clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mocking disappointment.

‘You really _are_ that stupid, Potter. I heard Goyle’s trunk hit you,’ he sneered. ‘And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back …’ He eyed Potter’s trainers with distaste. ‘That was you blocking the door when Zabini came back in, I suppose?’

He studied Potter. Even trapped and utterly at Draco’s mercy, Potter managed to look at him as if Draco was Flobberworm guts.

Draco remembered the last night of the Triwizard Tournament, when Potter came stumbling out of the maze, white-faced, clutching Cedric Diggory’s dead body. Potter had looked small and broken out there in the middle of the Quidditch pitch before Dumbledore and the others closed around him.

(He also remembered worrying because he had heard his father’s hints to expect something interesting at the end of the Tournament. _Why isn’t Potter back yet,_ he thought, scouring the rustling hedges of the maze with his binoculars.)

Potter had faced the Dark Lord again and again, and not once, had he flinched from the fight.

An inexplicable fury rose up in Draco, obliterating his common sense and his mercy. Harry fucking Potter wouldn’t let himself take the Dark Mark even if he had been forced at wand point. He would make it clear to Lord Voldemort that he would fight him every step of the way. Fucking Harry Potter wouldn’t become the Dark Lord’s _thing_.

‘ _Fuck_ you, Potter,’ Draco hissed and stamped hard on Potter’s face, _hating_ that face and wanting to destroy it.

Potter’s nose broke, the blood splattering everywhere. Potter’s eyes rolled in pain. Something within Draco wrenched painfully. He ignored it, bending down to yank the Cloak out from under Potter. He threw it over Potter and the bloodied gallant hero disappeared.

‘I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the train’s back in London,’ Draco said coldly. ‘See you around, Potter … or not.’

Accidentally stepping on Potter’s fingers, he strode out of the compartment and closed the door with a hard _bang_ behind him.


	5. Lies and Luck

**_\- Chapter Four -_ **

**Lies and Luck**

 

Potter was a Doxy that simply wouldn’t stay dead. He appeared in the Great Hall just before the dessert course, looking tragically interesting with his bloodied face and clothes. He looked straight ahead, practically running for the Gryffindor table.

Draco watched as Weasley and Granger, who had been whispering worriedly between them for most of the Feast, greeted their wayward hero with vast relief. Potter kept his head down, his lips pressed tightly together, shaking his head when his friends tried asking him questions. He wouldn’t look at Draco.

Draco scowled down at his roast beef, pushing it away with some nausea; he hadn’t an appetite to begin with.

‘What happened to Potter’s face?’ Zabini whispered.

Draco shrugged. Zabini shot him a funny look; it wasn’t like Draco to give up a chance to take the piss at Potter’s expense. When he saw that Draco remained tight-lipped, he frowned slightly but – to Draco’s relief – turned back to his conversation with Nott.

The rest of the Feast passed without much incident, except for the outcry when Dumbledore announced Snape’s reassignment as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Snape looked positively smug. Draco kept his head, struggling not to be sick. What a doddering fool Dumbledore was; how could the greatest wizard of the present age accept the redemption bile Snape must have fed him?

Draco looked at Potter and saw the other boy felt very much the same. It was an odd sensation, knowing that for once, he was in sync with Harry Potter when just a few hours ago, Draco had viciously broken a defenceless Potter’s nose.

Towards the end, Dumbledore gave an utterly predictable speech about Lord Voldemort’s return and the crimes being committed by his Death Eaters. People turned to stare at Draco. He concentrated on levitating his fork, aware of Potter’s eyes on him.

Dismissal couldn’t come sooner.

Draco descended into the dungeons with the rest of Slytherin House, making the necessary desultory conversation about the summer hols with whoever was next to him. Empty socialising was something he had been brought up to do; he could carry a conversation about the horridness of French hotels in his sleep.

He retreated to his bedroom with relief, thinking he was safe but Zabini barged in without knocking. The other wizard flicked his wand, locking the door, before Draco could protest.

Draco paused in the midst of unpacking his pyjamas. ‘What do you want, Zabini?’ he asked wearily. ‘Can this wait? I’m knackered.’

Zabini stood with his arms akimbo, the ceiling lights illuminating the dark frown carved into his face. ‘What have you done, Malfoy?’

Draco straightened, turning to face his friend. ‘What do you mean, what have I done?’

Zabini’s dark eyes scoured his face. He strode forward. ‘Come off it, you prat. We’re worried for you – you’ve gone and got involved in something bad, haven’t you?’ He made to grab Draco’s left arm and Draco instinctively flinched.

Zabini’s eyes widened and he struck like a viper, too fast for Draco to stop him. He seized Draco’s arm, jerking up the sleeve. The Dark Mark gleamed in the bright lantern light menacingly. Draco felt its presence as a physical weight on his arm. When Zabini released him, his arm fell back to his side like a stone.

His friend stared at him as if he didn’t know him. ‘What have you done?’ Zabini repeated through unmoving lips. ‘ _Draco._ ’

The sound of his name broke the dam in Draco and he found himself awash with shame and frustration and hot, naked anger.

‘I don’t have a choice!’ Draco snarled, shaking out his sleeve. ‘He was going to kill Father and he would have killed Mother too! He – he had a thing about sons making up for fathers’ mistakes or something – I – I had to do it – I don’t have a choice! This is the only way I can save my family.’

Zabini watched him, his handsome face frozen and expressionless. When Draco stopped talking, breathless with the vehemence of his words, Zabini reached out. He grabbed Draco’s left forearm, his grip pressing hard against the Mark. Draco hissed in pain and tried to pull away; Zabini wouldn’t let him.

‘Why did you brag about it on the train then, you stupid little fool?’ Zabini said contemptuously. ‘You should have kept quiet, shut up about it. You are in _Dumbledore_ ’s stronghold here – don’t you know what they _do_ to Death Eaters, to _suspected_ Death Eaters? How can you be so stupid?’ He shook Draco’s arm viciously.

‘I didn’t mean to!’ Draco shouted, yanking away. ‘ _You_ shut up about it. You can forget you ever saw it and stay out of my way.’

‘Don’t be _stupid_ ,’ Zabini snapped, shoving Draco in the chest. ‘I’m your bloody _friend_ , aren’t I; Salazar alone knows why I even am! We’re mates and I guess I have to see you through this sheer _idiocy_ you’re determined to go through with.’

‘Idiocy?’ Draco repeated in outrage.

 _Idiocy?_ Zabini was referring to Draco’s enslavement to Lord Voldemort as _idiocy_? He opened his mouth to disabuse Zabini of the notion that taking the Dark Mark was nothing more than an arrogant schoolboy’s vanity. But he saw the raw fear thrumming under Zabini’s polished mask of scorn – and stopped.

Zabini was right; they were mates. Draco would have to save him too.

He walked to his bed and sank down into it.

Zabini followed. ‘Well? What does the Dark Lord want you to do?’

Draco studied his fingernails. ‘He wants me to … fix something. There’s a powerful artefact within the castle that he wants. I’m supposed to fix it and … bring it to him.’

‘Oh,’ Zabini said, sounding relieved. ‘That doesn’t sound too bad. How can I help? And there’s no point trying to tell me the others shouldn’t know,’ he added before Draco could speak. ‘Pans especially. She’ll know something is happening and she will force it out of us eventually … so – how can we help?’

Draco slowly looked up. He met his friend’s eyes, smiled gratefully, and lied.

 

* * *

 

The first day of term went disastrously, starting with Snape’s non-verbal Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson (why the git Potter always insisted on having a pissing contest he could not win against Snape, Draco couldn’t understand) and ending with Slughorn’s rigged Potion-brewing contest.

The Golden Trio were the last to join the crowd milling outside the Potions classroom. Potter glowered when his eyes met Draco’s and turned away to talk to the pompous prat Macmillan before Draco could respond. Draco scowled, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

‘It’ll be weird having Potions without Snape,’ Nott was musing. ‘Slughorn doesn’t really seem like a _Potions_ master, don’t you think? Or a real Slytherin.’

‘And what do you suppose a _real_ Slytherin looks like?’ Zabini asked, amused.

Nott screwed up his face. ‘Snape.’

‘Well, that’s easily done. You can just avoid the shower for a week,’ Millicent, who had been his girlfriend since fourth year, chimed in.

Nott and Millie made a strange couple, a pairing of physical opposites: Nott who had fair hair the indistinct colour between blonde and brown, and was tall and thin with hunched shoulders like a slender question mark; and Millie who was built like a barrel and had four older brothers to teach her how to wrestle.

Zabini made cruel remarks about who wore the pants in the relationship until Millie socked him in the jaw last year and snogged Nott fiercely in the middle of the common room. Zabini had always been wary of Millie since.

He laughed sycophantically at her joke now, ignoring the look Draco shot him. Before Draco could insert a jibe at Zabini’s expense, Slughorn ushered them into the classroom, greeting Zabini and Potter with ridiculous enthusiasm, completely ignoring Draco. Draco reminded himself sullenly that Slughorn was nothing more than a lousy teacher. He didn’t matter, had no real power.

Four bubbling cauldrons stood near the middle of the room. Draco peered into them curiously as he passed, pausing as most of the others did at a gold-coloured cauldron. The vapours emitting from that cauldron smelled absolutely divine. He noted the mother-of-pearl sheen of the bubbling liquid – Amortentia.

Draco inhaled deeply, catching the fragrance of the fresh autumn scent of the woods at the Manor, Quidditch leathers, and something that he thought he had scented just a few minutes ago outside the classroom. Potter passed him and the glorious smells wafted, momentarily intensifying.

Draco pulled himself away from the gold cauldron, joining the other Slytherins at the table near a cauldron that only seemed to contain clear plain water.

‘What is that?’ Zabini asked him; Draco was the best at Potions in their group.

He shrugged, puzzled.

What he didn’t know, of course Granger did. She didn’t wait ten minutes into the class before pulling her obnoxious know-it-all bollocks. Millie rolled her eyes whenever Granger’s hand shot into the air.

‘It’s Veritaserum, a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth,’ Granger said of the clear potion near the Slytherins’ table.

Draco looked at the copper cauldron now with more interest. Veritaserum: that could come in useful.

After a few more instances of Granger shamelessly hogging the spotlight, Slughorn was, for some reason, absurdly impressed with her. ‘May I ask your name, my dear?’ he asked affably.

‘Hermione Granger, sir.’

‘Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?’

‘No, I don’t think so, sir. I’m Muggle-born, you see.’

‘Praising a Mudblood – _definitely_ not a proper Snape,’ Draco whispered to Nott, who sniggered.

Slughorn was beaming, looking at Potter now too. ‘Oho! “ _One of my best friends is Muggle-born and she’s the best in our year!_ ” I’m assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Potter said, looking slightly uncomfortable.

‘Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,’ Slughorn said.

Granger turned to positively beam at Potter, shooting him a fatuous expression that did not suit her plain squirrel face at all. Draco felt rather sick to his stomach. It seemed Weasley shared his sentiment, because he frowned unhappily at Potter.

‘Amortentia doesn’t really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room – oh yes,’ he nodded at Nott and Millie, who were smirking at each other. ‘When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love …’

Draco squirmed uncomfortably, feeling that the room was a bit too warm. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Potter, slouching in his seat. As it happened in every class they took together, Potter always lingered at the edges of his peripheral vision, a smudge that wouldn’t go away and that took up a disproportionate amount of Draco’s attention.

‘And now, it is time for us to start work,’ Slughorn announced.

‘Sir, you haven’t told us what’s in this one,’ Macmillan said, pointing to the small black cauldron on Slughorn’s desk. The potion was the colour of molten gold and had a rather merry feel about it.

‘Oho,’ Slughorn said, a rather annoying affectation. ‘Yes. That. Well, _that_ one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis.’ Granger gasped and Slughorn turned to her expectantly. ‘I take it that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?’

‘It’s liquid luck,’ Granger blurted. ‘It makes you lucky!’

Draco straightened up, completely intrigued now. Everybody else turned to stare at the little cauldron as well. Slughorn grinned broadly and proceeded to put on a show that Draco was quite impressed with.

Old Horace Slughorn was a Slytherin, no doubt, and clearly an extremely talented Potions Master. Draco eyed the tiny corked glass bottle Slughorn took out of his pocket, the desire to possess it clawing at his insides. Imagine what he could do with twelve hours of perfect luck! He wouldn’t use it for something so mundane as Quidditch or exams. There was simply so much he had to be lucky in doing …

But of course – _of course_ – at the end of the lessons, it was Potter who won it. His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, Draco watched a smug Potter took the little bottle of liquid luck.

That was the undeniable truth: when you were a hero, the world remade itself to bring you anything you could need to slay monsters; when you were an inconsequential character, the world either erased you or remade you into one of its monsters to be slayed.


	6. The Pleasure of Being Stalked

**_\- Chapter Five -_ **

**The Pleasure of Being Stalked**

 

Draco came across the Room of Hidden Things quite by accident at the end of fifth year. He had been racing along the seventh floor, desperate to find out what Potter had been so secretive about and the door appeared out of nowhere.

The Room of Hidden Things was a cavern filled with old dusty furniture and threadbare stained clothes – a church dedicated to the worship of a god who loved broken things.

Draco stood in the vast echoic room, staring at the tall thin dark cabinet. He had been going over every inch of the Vanishing Cabinet for the past three hours and was completely and utterly spent. This was how he had been spending most of his nights for the past week.

Vanishing Cabinets had proliferated during the war as a way to flee from Death Eater attacks. There were several all over Britain – something Draco deduced thanks to Montague, who had been stuffed into the broken Hogwarts Cabinet by the Weasley twins last year. Montague had talked about being in several places at once, one of the places of which was Borgin and Burkes all the way in London. The rest had dismissed his chatter as delirium – Montague himself included – but Draco had listened and he had remembered.

He knew fixing the Cabinet was going to be difficult, but he had completely underestimated the task. Borgin needed him to find out not only the physical specifications of the Cabinet, but also the individual spells that made up the Cabinet. You would think finding out the measurements was the easy part; not quite so when the Cabinet existed in seven dimensions.

Draco sighed, scrubbing his face. He checked the time. 1.23am – Merlin’s balls, Zabini had been waiting for over three hours! After placing a careful stasis spell on his work, Draco hurried out.

The Polyjuice Potion having worn out two hours ago, Zabini was sitting against a wall, dark head bent over a book. He looked up, closing his book with a _snap!_ ‘Done?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Yeah …’ Draco said. ‘You didn’t need to keep a lookout past twelve you know. It’s only going to be more suspicious if people saw Zabini lurking out here.’

Zabini stood up and began leading the way back to the Slytherin dungeons. ‘Yeah, I didn’t see anyone at all to be honest. But I thought you might appreciate the company, Malfoy. Don’t be ungrateful now.’ He punctuated his teasing words with a face-splitting yawn.

Draco rolled his eyes, suppressing his grin. ‘Yeah, yeah. I suppose I do have you to thank for distracting Slughorn so I can steal the potions.’

‘No thanks to _you_ I have to attend those dratted Slug Club meetings now,’ Zabini grimaced. ‘Rubbing shoulders with Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs … Ravenclaws aren’t too bad at least, when they’re not going off tangent on some abstract concept.’

‘ _You_ would know,’ Draco pointed out.

Zabini was one of the few Slytherins who had friends in other houses. Despite what he said about Hufflepuff, he had a close childhood friend in the House of Badgers. His mother wasn’t even a Slytherin, but a Ravenclaw and as a socialite, had friends from all four Houses. This was one of the reasons the Malfoys, Parkinsons, Goyles and Crabbes did not care for Mrs Zabini’s company.

 _Not pure enough,_ Mrs Parkinson had once said with a haughty sniff.

 _Not even a Slytherin!_ Mrs Crabbe concurred.

But of course, the women had their own reasons for rejecting Mrs Zabini. Draco had seen Zabini’s photos of his mum: sloe-eyed, satiny brown skin, waves of shiny black hair – all the ingredients for a woman any man would take the chance with despite knowing her (wealthy) exes were somehow all dead. Zabini was tight-lipped on that subject, but Draco got the inkling that it was a family curse.

Zabini was smirking at him, all sculpted planes and sharp angles. ‘You Sacred Twenty-Eight lot are disgustingly incestuous. Cousins marrying cousins … with all the inbreeding, it’s no wonder Slytherins end up with winners like Flint.’ Marcus Flint, a hard, nasty bastard Draco wouldn’t put up with if the bugger weren’t Quidditch captain.

Draco snorted. Zabini had a fair point. They turned a corner, starting down a tightly winding staircase, steps illuminated by spell-lit lamps and weak moonlight. Their voices echoed around them.

‘You could help us, marry one of us,’ Draco suggested.

Zabini, walking behind him, snorted. ‘Not bloody likely. Besides the fact that your parents wouldn’t consider me _pure_ enough, I won’t ever marry.’

‘What, we’re only sixteen. That’s what you say now.’

‘No,’ Zabini said firmly. ‘I won’t ever marry.’

Draco looked over his shoulder and saw the obdurate set of Zabini’s jaw, the forbidding look on his face. _So, a family curse then._ They came to the end of the staircase and were walking side-by-side again.

‘Well, Pansy will be upset, I think,’ he said casually. ‘Her mother might force her to marry Crabbe.’

Zabini perceptibly stiffened. ‘Yeah? But Crabbe isn’t a Sacred Twenty Eight either.’

Draco shrugged. ‘Not many Sacred Twenty Eight families left … I think we’ll have to take any purebloods we can get now.’

Zabini fell into a huffy silence, irritated that Draco should bring up Pansy. Draco suppressed a smirk, stuffing his hands into his pockets. So he was right then: Zabini did fancy Pansy. He was keeping away from her to protect her – how clichéd! Perhaps after Draco was done with the Cabinet, he could do some research on Zabini’s curse.

In the sleepy silence, Draco heard them – careful footsteps behind them. He stiffened, looking at Zabini out of the corner of his eye. Frowning, deep in thought, his friend didn’t seem to notice anything. Draco gritted his teeth, fisting his hands in his pockets. _For the sake of Merlin’s sagging bollocks!_

They reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

‘You go ahead. I think I’ll take a bath at the Prefects’ Bathroom,’ Draco said to Zabini, who – in a mark of his annoyance with Draco – nodded curtly and went down the passageway.

The entrance sealed up behind him, leaving Draco standing alone in the cold corridor. He headed down the corridor in the direction of the Prefects’ Bathroom and the faint sound of footsteps started again. Draco’s teeth were ground so tightly together, his jaw ached. He forced himself to relax, to keep his stride loose and easy.

He had to go to the Prefects’ Bathroom now since Potter would have had heard. No matter: it would be easier to wash away the blood in a bathroom after all and Draco swore silently that there _would_ be blood. It would hardly be his fault; he hadn’t forced Potter at wand point to be a complete idiot.

The door to the Prefects’ Bathroom opened at the password _Mermaid fangs_ , the lights blooming to life when Draco entered. He felt a breeze when Potter rushed in behind him. He gripped his wand in his pocket – Potter was close enough now that his hex would be accurate – and an idea so brilliant he was momentarily blinded by the genius of it sprang into his mind.

It took only a few moments for Draco to commit himself to the idea. It was bloody fucking _brilliant_ and Potter would _never_ see it coming.

He went over to the stone ledge running along the left wall of the bathroom, hooks set into the wall above it. He checked that his bandage over his Dark Mark was secure. Let Potter speculate; Draco would worry about being exposed as a Death Eater if it really came down to that.

His hands trembling slightly, he began to undress – robes, shirt and trousers dumped unceremoniously on the ledge in his haste – until he was only in his pants, pleased that he was wearing his favourite royal blue silk pants. He thought he could hear a sharp intake of breath.

Holding his breath, goose pimples appearing on his skin, Draco slipped off his pants. He went over to the taps and turned a few at random, taking care to point his naked arse in where he thought Potter was standing. Potter already thought Draco was loathsome, but he didn’t know just how filthy Draco could get.

Poor straight little virgin Potter – Draco was going to make him wish he could _Obliviate_ himself.

Draco slid into the pool, turning the taps off once it was half-filled. He made a brief show of washing himself, the hot water pleasant against his skin. He settled on the ledge set into the walls of the pool. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his hardening cock. He definitely heard a gasp this time.

Smirking, Draco began to stroke himself. For a while, there was no sound in the bathroom but the susurration of skin against skin and the occasional _plink_ of water. A breeze rippled over his wet skin, his nipples peaking in the brief chill.

Was Potter holding his breath?

Draco imagined that underneath the Invisibility Cloak, Potter was staring, gawping stupidly, pale and agog, his piercing green eyes fixed on Draco’s pumping hand. He imagined Potter licking his lips, a pink tongue darting out to wet soft lips. He imagined Potter’s cock hardening, his pants growing tighter.

He groaned aloud, desire shooting straight to his cock. He opened his eyes and saw, near the door, the bottom halves of bedroom slippers. The toes were pointing in Draco’s direction. Potter was _watching_.

Shock and delight made him daring. His erection bouncing off his stomach, Draco reached up and pumped some liquid soap into his hand. He spread his legs wide open and reached down past his balls. His eyes focused in Potter’s direction, keeping one hand moving on his cock, he began rubbing the puckered skin of his arsehole.

When he was properly relaxed, he pushed his finger into his arsehole, breathing out through his nose. _Potter is watching_. Draco’s cock throbbed, his orgasm coiling up deep in his belly. Oh, he was _close_. It wouldn’t take much more to send him off the edge, not with the knowledge that _Potter is watching_. Draco began moving his finger in gentle, circular motions, his other hand steadily stroking his cock.

His eyes slid inexorably close, his head tilted back, his lips parted. _Potter is watching_. Green eyes – fierce and wild and alive – flashed behind his lids and Draco came with an embarrassing yelp, his spunk spurting out over his hand, over his belly. His cry echoed off the walls of the silent bathroom, nearly covering Potter’s gasp.

Draco opened his eyes again. Warm and dazed in the afterglow of a magnificent wank, he looked straight in Potter’s direction and said, ‘Did you like what you saw, Potter?’

There was the impression of sudden movement – an ankle appeared and disappeared. The doorknob twisted, the door opened, the door slammed shut, and Potter was gone.

Sitting in the half-empty pool, covered in his own come, Draco was thoughtful. So Potter would watch him wank, eh? There were some interesting implications to that; such as perhaps Potter wasn’t as straight as Draco had always thought …

 

* * *

 

Whenever their eyes met, Potter would blanch and hastily turn away, looking as if Draco was a Hungarian Horntail. It was clear his behaviour bewildered his friends; Weasley would glare accusingly at Draco, at which Draco would give him his best _I’m innocent of any wrongdoing_ look.

The other Slytherins noticed too. Pansy would gleefully deride Potter, looking at Draco hopefully, but Draco wouldn’t join in. Much as it thrilled him to truly have a one-up over Potter, he couldn’t expend the effort to poke fun at the Boy Who Lived anymore. Working on the Cabinet was taking over every waking minute of his life.

His friends were worried, he could tell. Pansy would look at him askance, making little casual comments about his schoolwork and the horrid bags under his eyes. It took most of Draco’s self-restraint not to snarl at her, mostly because he knew Zabini would skewer him for making Pansy cry.

Draco’s poor performance in class was attracting the teachers’ attention as well. McGonagall would give Draco her infamous, pinched-lip look of disapproval and Snape was asking to meet Draco, something Draco had been putting off with excuses of Quidditch practice.

Even Quidditch was no longer as fun as he thought it was. He could be up in the air, searching for the Snitch and his mind would be back in the dusty enclosed hall of the Room of Hidden Things.

What with his life falling apart around him, Draco was rather grateful that Potter had taken to assiduously avoiding him. Potter would no doubt be put off following him around and Draco could focus on his work without worrying about Potter finding out his secret.

When he was caught up in the midst of it, when he was only thinking of transference spells and magical wood and special runes, he relished the work. His mind focused, he didn’t need to think about the Dark Lord, about his mother trapped in Malfoy Manor, about his father wasting away in Azkaban, about Harry bloody Potter. He only needed to look at the spells, to trace the runes, to trawl through books with pages nibbled by bookwyrms.

The weather grew rapidly chillier around them. The wind blew September into October, the leaves orange and crisp on the ground and the trees stark against a pewter sky. The owls blotched out the gloomy sky momentarily, a swarm of damp feathers falling upon them.

An underfed owl landed in front of Draco, a water-stained letter clamped in its dull yellow beak. Draco blinked, trying to focus his sleep-deprived vision. The owl dropped the letter on the table, hooting angrily. Goyle tossed it a bit of bacon and appeased, the owl winged away.

‘Draco,’ Pansy said in a voice of forced calm. She was looking at the letter. ‘It’s from your father.’ She looked up at him, pale with fright.

The table hushed around him. Zabini, who was talking to Millie, snapped his head around to stare. Draco reached out for the letter, feeling oddly detached. He stared down at the damp parchment, wondering just how much Narcissa had to pay for this privilege.

‘Draco,’ Pansy said again, touching his arm lightly.

He shrugged off her hand, ignored her cloying concern and stuffed the letter into his pocket. ‘I’ll see you all in Transfiguration,’ he said without looking at any of them.

Pansy opened her mouth. He got to his feet, grabbing his things blindly. Hunching his shoulders against his friends’ eyes, he scurried out of the Great Hall. It took most of his self-control not to look over at the Gryffindor table, to check if Potter was looking at him, as it had become his habit to do these days.

Draco headed straight for Moaning Myrtle’s loo. She wasn’t there as he locked himself up in the last stall. For a few moments, he sat still and quiet on the covered toilet, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat and the echo of a dripping tap somewhere. When he was calm enough, he took his father’s letter out with shaking hands.

Myrtle found him twenty minutes later staring blankly at the stained parchment. The messy scrawl so unlike his father’s usual elegant script swam hazily before him. Something dark and great was clawing at his insides, crippling him with agony.

The ghost hovered in front of Draco, body halfway through the stall door.

‘Draco, what is it?’ she asked, her voice quavering.

He looked up. ‘My father is dying of spattergroit,’ he said in a cold, dead voice.

He crumpled the parchment up, his whole body shaking. He was cold, frighteningly so.

Draco’s plan was a good one; he knew it – that was why the Dark Lord had approved it. Get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, wreck havoc, spread fear – _nowhere is safe from Lord Voldemort, especially not your children if you dare defy me –_ and in the midst of it, if Dumbledore should die, that would hardly be remarkable.

Draco was in the Room of Hidden Things choking on dust every day, working to keep his parents alive. But too slow – his plan was progressing _too slowly_. It had been more than three months since Lucius was returned to Azkaban and before that, he had been tortured daily, extensively.

_Too slow._

Draco was sobbing, heaving painful sobs ripping at his chest, fists pressed against his eyes. Myrtle murmured worriedly, desperate for his pain to stop. Once or twice, she came too close and Draco shuddered, hard, the chill painful on his skin.

Dumbledore had to die _now_.

Dumbledore had to die now or his father would die in prison.

But – how?

Draco was gasping, his breathing wet and desperate. He pulled his hands away, tears cold on his cheeks. He stared unseeingly at Myrtle, the sight of her pigtailed head half in and out of the toilet stall tragically comic.

The past three months, he had focused on the mechanics of it. He had refused to think about the reality of it: that Dumbledore had to die by his hand. He thought of the great old wizard, standing in the front of the Great Hall, making a grandiose speech about prevailing against the Dark Lord. His upper lip curled.

He had never thought much of Dumbledore. His father had disdained of Dumbledore because he was a Muggle-lover, but Draco thought there was something pharisaical about the Headmaster. He was too old, wrapped up in the confidence of his so-called wisdom, sure that his way was the only way. Everybody else was chess pieces.

Only Potter and his silly band of short-sighted Gryffindors would wholly trust everything Dumbledore said and did.

Potter.

The Headmaster’s little protégé.

The wizarding world – the part of it that Potter was trying so desperately to protect – would be destroyed by Dumbledore’s death. _Potter_ would be decimated by Dumbledore’s death.

Draco’s heart was twisting in his chest. He clutched the front of his robes, feeling as if he was being ripped apart. _Potter_ , he thought and _Confringo_ was burning him alive. The parchment crinkled in his hand. He looked down at it. The words “ _Save me, Draco. Please, my son, I do not want to die like this,_ ” screamed up at him and he was swept away by freezing fear and guilt and despair.

‘Draco? Are you all right?’ Myrtle peered at him with watery eyes. ‘Should I – should I fetch help?’

‘No,’ he said quietly, standing. ‘I’m fine.’

Draco didn’t have time to wait for _help_. _Please, my son …_

‘What’s that letter? Is it your parents? Are they all right?’ Myrtle asked worriedly.

Shrugging off Myrtle’s questions, ignoring her completely, Draco pushed through her out of the toilet stall, scarcely noticing the cold. He left Myrtle behind, composing a letter to Borgin in his head, the spectre’s chill deep and spreading within him.


	7. The Marauder's Map

**_\- Chapter Six -_ **

**The Marauder’s Map**

 

It took a little under a month for Draco to set his plan up.

First, there was the actual acquiring of the necklace. Borgin had willingly relinquished the Dark artefact at a fraction of the price he might have sold it in better times. Then, Draco had to think of a way to get the necklace into the castle without alerting Filch’s Secrecy Sensor.

It was a plan exquisitely simple in theory – _get another student to bring it in for him_ – but outrageously complex in execution.

‘Draco, _stop_!’ Pansy shrieked, struggling to keep up with his stride up the hill.

He whipped around, impatient, glaring as she reached his side, breathless with exertion. Further down the hill, Goyle and Crabbe were hurrying to catch up, loaded down with bags of sweets. Zabini was still down in Hogsmeade, spending the day with one of his Ravenclaw mates.

‘What?’ Draco asked testily. ‘It’s cold.’

‘I’m _trying_ to ask you what you were doing with Madam Rosmerta,’ Pansy snapped. ‘You were holed up in the back room with her for ages.’ The Three Broomsticks were their last stop – and where Draco had carried out the most crucial part of his plan successfully.

He sneered. ‘She’s rather fit for an older woman, don’t you think?’

She levelled him with a stare of hard incredulity. ‘Stop taking the piss, you ponce! You’re planning something – aren’t you? What are you planning, Draco?’

Her question echoed Snape’s. Snape had finally succeeded in forcing Draco to meet him and on the pretext of quizzing him about his recently deplorable schoolwork, had been trying to get him to divulge his plan to off his employer. Not bloody likely was Draco about to talk; you couldn’t trust someone like Snape, who wafted where the good wind blew.

Fury curled up in Draco, hard and heatless. Pansy must have seen something on his face because her determined curiosity flickered, replaced by worry. He scowled. He didn’t _need_ her bloody concern.

‘It’s really none of your business, Parkinson,’ he said levelly and turned away.

‘Draco!’ she called after him, upset, but he continued striding up the hill, alone.

Zabini came to his room that night, frigid with anger. He had no qualms and wasted no time in telling Draco precisely what he thought of the way he had thrown Pansy’s concern in her face. Draco watched his friend rant as he paced the floor in front of him.

‘Well?’ Zabini demanded, whirling around to face Draco, who was sitting on the end of his bed. ‘Go apologise to her.’

‘No,’ Draco said coolly. ‘It really wasn’t any of her business.’

Zabini’s face hardened and he took half a step in Draco’s direction. ‘Yes, it really wasn’t, but she’s worried about you – so am I – and we _deserve_ to know what you’re doing so we can save you from the next stupid thing you’re going to do. You have no right to be so bloody rude to Pans when she’s only trying to help!’

‘Save me,’ Draco repeated flatly. ‘ _Save_ me.’ He gave a bark of acerbic laughter; Zabini involuntarily cringed. ‘Get out of my room, Zabini.’

Zabini took another step towards Draco, looking alarmed now, as if his lecturing was not going according to plan. ‘Malfoy –’

‘Leave,’ Draco said quietly, drawing his wand.

Zabini turned yellow under his golden-brown complexion. ‘You wouldn’t dare. Don’t you fucking dare, Malfoy.’

Dispassionately, with an almost lazy wave of his wand, Draco cast a Hurling Hex at Zabini. His friend was thrown to the ground and he picked himself up in the next moment. He could hardly speak, his outrage sputtering out in insults and curses. Draco kept his face blank.

Zabini stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut, his magic shattering the lamps in Draco’s room. Draco sat in darkness for a few moments, gathering his breath. ‘ _Lumos_ ,’ he whispered and his wand tip lit up, a weak glow in the swimming blackness.

Pansy and Zabini were dangerous, you see, because they were stubborn and smart and creative. They were unlike Crabbe, who detested Draco after Mr Crabbe was jailed as a result of Lucius Malfoy’s failure, and Goyle, who cared but lacked the initiative to take action.

Crabbe and Goyle were confused by Pansy and Zabini’s coldness towards Draco, even if Crabbe revelled in it. Draco ignored it, ignored them, and continued working on the Cabinet as he pushed the pieces of his other plan into place.

‘You look ill,’ Myrtle said in her usual lugubrious manner, hovering over his shoulder.

Draco paused in the midst of washing his face and examined himself in the mirror foggy with age. He had to admit he looked wretched: his pale skin had taken on a grey tinge, his usually shiny hair lank and greasy. The areas beneath his eyes were bruised from the lack of sleep.

‘I look like shit,’ he observed aloud.

‘I think you’ve lost weight too,’ Myrtle fretted. ‘What’s wrong? You’re spending more and more time here and … and it isn’t normal for people to _want_ to spend time here. They usually avoid me …’

Draco felt a flash of pity. Myrtle had kicked up a fuss at first when he started using her bathroom to wash up before dinner, but stopped when she thought she would really succeed in driving him away. She was alone in life and she would be alone in her undeath. He wondered what would help her move on, but that was perhaps a rather sensitive topic.

He continued washing up. Dinner had started half an hour ago. He had taken to coming to dinner later these days. It was awkward sitting there, being blatantly ignored by Pansy and Zabini. The other Slytherins in their year clearly felt awkward, especially when Draco joined a conversation and Zabini would overtly cut him.

These were only social games, he told himself, and his mother had raised him on a diet of meaningless social niceties and searing snubs at her breast. He, the Malfoy heir, could – and would – weather this.

He cast a quick Hot Air Spell and shouldered his bag. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Myrtle,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Good-bye,’ she said mournfully, glowing pearlescent in the dimming light; the lights in Hogwarts extinguished automatically in the absence of a living being.

He paused for a moment outside the Great Hall, listening to the bustle and chatter. Light spilled through the open doorway to the Entrance Hall, where Draco stood in the darkness. The candles in the Entrance Hall weren’t lighting up for him.

  

* * *

 

 

Zabini found him in the Southern Courtyard, where Draco liked to go when it weren’t so crowded like today, when most of Hogwarts were down in Hogsmeade. A branch cracked above his head, tumbling to the ground and sending leaves scattering across his homework. Calmly, he brushed the desiccated leaves off his parchment and looked up.

Zabini stood with his wand pointed straight at Draco. His face was hard and expressionless. ‘Tell me,’ he grinded out, ‘you aren’t responsible for Katie Bell’s curse.’

Draco stared, bewildered, his mind still swimming from the Transfiguration essay McGonagall had set him to do during his detention earlier. ‘Bell? The Gryffindor Chaser? What curse?’

Reflexively, he thought of the cursed silver necklace. Rosmerta had promised him its delivery today. Some of his realisation showed inadvertently on his face and Zabini snarled, jabbing his wand ineffectually at Draco.

‘For _fuck’s_ sake, Malfoy!’ he shouted. ‘What a bloody stupid – how bloody careless – for _fuck’s_ sake!’

He began pacing, as he always did when he was anxious. ‘Bell touched the bloody thing and she began flying in mid-air and screaming and for fuck’s sake, _Potter_ was there.’

Draco’s stomach dropped. ‘Potter? What was he doing there?’

‘Bell touched the bloody thing right outside the castle, didn’t she?’ Zabini yelled. ‘Why are you even trying to bring it into the castle? And you _Imperius_ -ed her! That’s punishable by a prison term, Malfoy!’

Draco shook his head; he would be so grateful he was alive to be even sent into prison. ‘Potter – what was he doing there?’ he repeated.

‘We were all walking up the hill, back to Hogwarts. Bell and her friend were in front of Potter, Weasley and Granger. They saw the curse take her – they were the ones who ran for help,’ Zabini said. ‘Why are you trying to curse Bell, Malfoy? Is this some stupid tactic against the Gryffindor Quidditch team?’

Draco stared at him in disbelief. Quidditch? His friend thought he would buy a cursed necklace to win a _Quidditch match_? Zabini was staring at him with wild eyes; he was utterly out of his element here and he could not begin to think of how to deal with Draco. Of course he couldn’t – he wouldn’t know Draco’s real mission.

So his plan to kill Dumbledore with a cursed necklace had failed. Morgana’s tits, after he had taken all the trouble to buy the dratted thing too. It was unfortunate about Bell and that Potter had seen it happen.

Potter hadn’t bothered him in months, but it wouldn’t take much to stir his suspicion again. He hated Draco so much that he could attribute anything to Draco – Draco should know, he had done precisely the same until the Dark Lord’s return and the truth of his hatred of Harry Potter was made absurdly clear to him.

‘Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?’ Zabini asked, even though he knew it was pointless to try.

Draco didn’t say a word. He looked back down at his homework.

‘Fine. Have it your way,’ Zabini sounded bitter. ‘You are dabbling with things more dangerous you can imagine, Malfoy, and I’m not sure you are doing well enough to hide it from Potter. We all know how Potter is going to react when he finds out what you are – he is going to _destroy_ you.’

With that, he stormed out of the courtyard, leaving Draco alone with falling leaves and dwindling sunlight. He sat outside in the absurd cold, his breaths coming out in puffs, until he could no longer feel his hands. He cast a quick Warming Charm, threw his things into his bag and began making his way to the Great Hall for dinner.

McGonagall’s detention had forced him to confront his growing pile of homework. It was almost amazing how he had fallen behind in all his classes. The teachers were determined to drown them in coursework, hoping to prepare children adequately for the impending war. He had spent the rest of his day scrambling to finish his work, but what with his extra-curricular, he knew he would not be able to maintain his straight Os.

Narcissa Malfoy would be disappointed. She had written to him yesterday, telling him about Father’s worsening spattergroit, how the prison guards were refusing to go near him and refusing to let her heal him or hire a Healer …

Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the Golden Trio until it was too late to go another way without looking as if he were running away. Potter saw him too. Draco gritted his teeth and continued walking. Potter drew to a halt where their corridors met, forcing his cronies to stop with him.

‘I know it was you, Malfoy,’ he snapped. Behind him, Granger and Weasley exchanged looks of exasperation.

Of course Draco couldn’t just let that go. He stopped as well and pulled on his best sneer. ‘It isn’t enough that you’ve put an innocent man in Azkaban; you’re trying to accuse _me_ of something as well? Well, well, Potter, let us have it. This will be rich,’ he drawled.

‘Your father isn’t innocent,’ Potter spat.

Draco knew it; he just couldn’t let Potter know that.

‘Your father is a murdering Death Eater,’ Potter continued, green eyes aflame with frustration. ‘And he’s right where he belongs!’

Anger snapped in Draco’s chest, hot and overwhelming as lava. He drew his wand. ‘ _Flag –_ ’

‘ _Expelliarmus_!’ Potter roared, slashing his wand like a whip.

Draco’s wand soared from his hand, clattering to the ground somewhere behind him. He staggered back, furious and helpless and outraged at his helplessness.

‘Who are you trying to curse, Malfoy? Who was the necklace for?’ Potter strode forward, stabbing his wand into Draco’s chest.

Draco stared at him. There was a flinty mercilessness in Potter’s eyes. He had seen the damage the Dark artefact had done to his teammate, to his friend, and he _knew_ deep in his bones that Draco was responsible for it. Nobody else – Granger, Weasley and the teachers probably – believed him, but he remained steadfast in his persecution of Draco.

Unbidden, Draco felt a rush of exhilaration. Potter had been thinking about him, thinking him an attempted killer, but thinking of him nonetheless. The giddiness rushed to his head, ebullient as apple cider.

‘Careful what you accuse me of there, Potter,’ Draco said silkily. ‘Mother knows people on the Wizengamot – and we know your experience with the law hasn’t been very good, has it.’

Potter’s eyes flashed, remembering Umbridge, remembering the indignation of being accused of a crime by the very institution he should trust. ‘Good for you, Malfoy, you’ll need it to save you from Azkaban when they find out what you are.’

Draco’s heart jolted. Under the bandage, his left forearm itched. He forced himself very still, forced himself to meet Potter’s eyes. ‘And you think you know what I am, Potter?’ he asked quietly. ‘And do you _like what you see,_ Potter?’

The effect was immediate – and glorious. Potter’s face flushed bright red and his green eyes widened. His hand faltered, the wand tip moving away, leaving a spot Draco knew would turn into a bruise later on. Draco smirked.

‘Never thought of you as a ponce, Potter,’ he said. ‘You like taking it up the arse too, Potter? Would you like me to fuck you?’

Behind Potter, Weasley made a noise of protest, raising his wand. Granger grabbed him, hissing at him, ‘ _No_ violence, Ron!’

Potter’s eyes were fixed on Draco’s face, his mouth fallen open. Draco made a show of looking at Potter’s lips, flicked his eyes back up and slowly licked his own lips, even though he was feeling far from amorous at the moment. Potter was visibly repulsed; he jerked away, looking as if he had been punched in the face.

‘You’re disgusting,’ he hissed. ‘I’m not bent!’

Draco gave him a knowing look. ‘Right. Sure, Potter. That’s why you stayed to watch me wank that one time. Were you hard? Did you go back to bed and wank with your little Gryffindor friends sleeping around you? It turns you on – wanking to a filthy Slytherin, to _me_?’

Potter was panicking, he could tell, so when Potter punched him right in the face, Draco supposed he shouldn’t be so surprised. In fact, later, when logic and reason was his once more, he reflected grimly that he rather deserved it: for outing Potter to his friends, whether he was bi or gay.

Potter fought dirtily, sinking any blows he could without regard for fairness, using fingernails and elbows. He fought to win; he fought for survival. Draco had never physically fought another person in his life; _a wizard uses his wand_ , his father always said. But his resentment thrumming through him, electric and vital, gave him strength. He swung back with everything he’d got.

Granger and Weasley were yelling. There were other voices in the corridor now. Hands grabbed Draco, hauling him back. He blinked through his sweaty fringe, staring across the no-man’s land at Potter, who was swearing angrily, struggling to break free of Weasley and Finnigan’s hands.

Flitwick had arrived on the scene, squeakily blustering about the outrage of brawling and expecting better from sixth-years, especially _you_ , Mr Potter; of course it wouldn’t be _Draco_ he expected better from. In the end, he sentenced the two of them to joint detention with Filch.

‘And I hope,’ he added, ‘that spending time together would force the two of you to at least be _civil_ to each other. We are in troubled times, it wouldn’t do to have our Houses divided.’

Granger, who was wearing her well-honed hollow-cheeked look of disapproval and disgust, flicked her wand at the mess on the ground – their bags had split open in their fight – and sent the scattered things back into the bags. Draco grabbed his bag, scooping his wand up from where it had rolled on the ground.

 

‘Do you hear me, Mr Malfoy?’ Flitwick squeaked sternly.

‘Hogwarts has always been divided,’ Draco said viciously in response.

He spat a wad of blood and saliva at Potter’s feet, causing Potter to surge forward barely restrained by his friends, and spun around, elbowing his way out of the circle of watching Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. He walked down the corridor, alone, shaking with suppressed rage and revulsion, followed by hundreds of eyes waiting for him to trip and fall.

 

* * *

 

Draco stormed through the relatively empty common room – most people would still be down in the Great Hall – and slammed into his room. He hurled his bag onto the rug, releasing a guttural scream of frustration. He kicked his bag, sending his things flying out, but even that couldn’t alleviate the tight ball of anxiety and frustration in his chest.

 _Fucking Potter,_ fuck _you, Potter, fuck you for existing. I fucking hate you! I wish the Dark Lord would fucking kill you already._ He regretted it the moment he allowed himself to think it. Sickened, he sat down heavily at the foot of his bed, covering his face with his hands. Potter always had a way of crawling beneath his skin, seething there like baneberry poison.

He winced. Potter had managed to land a few hard blows. He probed his left side warily, wondering if going down to Pomfrey was worth the effort. Perhaps tomorrow: all he wanted right now was to curl up in bed.

He was exhausted. It was already November and he was _still_ trying to figure out what was wrong with the Cabinet. He hadn’t even started on actually _fixing_ it. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind. _And the prison guards are asking for five Galleons for a blanket. I’m thinking of selling some of my jewellery – well, it’s not like I will have the chance to wear it much these days._

Draco doubled up, a painful sob rising from his chest. He pressed his fists into his hot eyes. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_. He opened his eyes, blearily staring at the mess strewn across his floor. Heaving a sigh, he stood and began picking his things up.

An hour for homework and then he would have to sneak out to the Room of Hidden Things. Another night with the Cabinet – not that he could sleep, knowing that he had the Cabinet to work on.

He picked up his Charms textbook. There was a piece of old parchment beneath it, made of thick yellow stock like the kind they used to make in the seventies and heavily creased with folds.

Draco frowned. It wasn’t his. His parchment was custom-made by Malfoy house-elves, creamy white and satin-smooth, with the Malfoy crest embossed on the right-hand corner. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was blank on both sides. _Curious._

If it weren’t his … he thought back to his fight with Potter and how Granger had tossed their things higgledy-piggledy into the respective bags. So this had to be Potter’s.

Draco sat back down on his bed, kicking off his shoes and folding his legs beneath him. He unfolded the parchment, running his hands over the empty surface. Why would Potter have such an old piece of parchment and not use it? He fetched his wand, murmuring, ‘ _Specialis revelio_!’, as he tapped the parchment.

The name of the charm used on it appeared in mid-air in faint golden letters: the Homonculous Charm. Draco was duly impressed. The Homonculous Charm was a powerful and advanced piece of magic, overcoming any sort of concealment to track anyone within the indicated area. This was a map then.

Had Potter made it? Was Draco underestimating the Boy Wonder’s intelligence all along? Perhaps Granger had a hand in this. Still, the parchment seemed genuinely old, older than them even.

He unfolded it, flattening it across his lap. ‘ _Aparecium_!’

Words appeared, scrawled in a neat prim hand. _Mr Moony expresses his dismay that you are not in possession of the password. Mr Prongs advises further study. Mr Padfoot says study is bollocks and you are simply too stupid to be able to use the Map. Mr Wormtail very much agrees and suggests you pass the Map to a more worthy prankster._

 _Wormtail?_ Draco was dumbfounded. Why would Wormtail’s name appear on a parchment Potter owned? Potter had to know Wormtail helped kill his parents. Not made by Potter and his friends then. He tapped the map again. ‘ _Revelio_!’

Once again, Messrs Moony, Prongs, Padfoot and Wormtail insulted him for not knowing the password. Draco tried a few more revelation charms to no end. Increasingly frustrated, he rapped the parchment forcefully with his wand. ‘What’s the bloody password then, you stupid map?’

 _Mr Moony thinks there isn’t need for such crass insults. Mr Prongs concurs; besides,_ you _’re the twat yelling at a map. Mr Padfoot approves the use of vulgarities, you stupid little fucker. Mr Wormtail would like to inform you that you need only ask because the Marauders are always keen on helping fellow pranksters._

Beneath all that tripe were the words: _I solemnly swear I am up to no good._

Laughter wheezed out of Draco. He couldn’t help it; it was all so ridiculous. He tapped the Marauders’ Map with his wand, intoning, ‘I solemnly swear I am up to no good!’

Black lines began to appear all over the parchment: corridors and classrooms, halls and courtyards, and dots – hundreds of dots tagged with names moving across the parchment. Draco stared, awestruck. He found the Slytherin dungeons and saw his own tiny dot in his bedroom labelled in minuscule handwriting.

He laughed again, this time with pure delight. Potter, the lucky little bugger, had this magical beauty with him all along! So this was how he knew where to find Zabini and Draco the night of the wanking in the Prefects’ Bathroom.

He ran his finger down corridors, searching for Gryffindor Tower. He found Potter’s dot in the common room, surrounded by Granger and two Weasleys. He pressed his finger to _Harry Potter_ , a smirk growing across his face.

He wondered how Potter would like to have a taste of his own medicine. His grin grew wider. For a moment, the aches from his fight, the weight of the broken Cabinet and the guilt from Katie Bell’s curse faded away and Draco was only thinking of punishing Harry Potter.


	8. Filch's Detention

**_\- Chapter Seven -_ **

**Filch’s Detention**

 

The Map came in handiest at night. Draco was in most of Potter’s classes, so he knew where Potter usually was in the day. Besides Quidditch and the occasional visit down to the half-breed oaf Hagrid, Potter spent time in Dumbledore’s office.

Draco made it a habit to check the Map for Potter every once in a while, whenever he was taking a break from the Cabinet. In the first two days since Draco had become the new owner of the Marauder’s Map, he watched as Potter dithered all over the castle. He had overheard Potter hiss, ‘He must have _nicked_ it!’ during Potions and took care not to look over. But Potter didn’t confront him and Draco took care to stay out of his way.

On Monday, Potter had gone to the Headmaster and spent over five hours there. Draco stood in the shadows of the corridor, cloaked in a strong Disillusionment Charm, and watched as Potter emerged from the moving gargoyle staircase. He needn’t have bothered with the Charm; Potter was deep in thought, frowning as he disappeared down the corridor. Draco didn’t follow him.

There would be other chances to catch Potter at doing something he shouldn’t be doing – like when he was having a late-night joyride down at the Quidditch pitch. Stymied by a particularly tricky knot of protection spells on the Cabinet, Draco had taken a moment to see what Potter was doing. It gave him deep satisfaction to know where Potter was, even if all he was doing was sleeping.

Potter wasn’t in bed tonight. He was in the air, lapping the pitch again and again on his Firebolt, head thrown back, dark hair streaming in the wind. Draco stood under the bleachers and watched that improbable creature gleaming under moonlight through the wooden poles and slats, arms wrapped tightly around himself against the cold.

Potter must have flown for hours, but watching him, mesmerised, Draco hardly noticed the time. At some point, he sat down, resting his arms and chin on a bench from behind. At another point, he supposed he had closed his eyes and simply fell asleep. The next thing he knew, he was lying in the frosty grass, staring up at Potter.

Potter loomed over him, looking sweaty and windswept, broom in his right hand. Moonlight slanted through the slats, throwing relief to Potter’s face. He was scowling, eyes dark with anger. ‘What are you doing here, Malfoy?’ he snapped.

Disoriented, Draco sat quickly and smashed his head on the bench above. He swore, rubbing the top of his head, scrambling for thought and sense. Potter took a step back and the shadows swept over him. He kept silent, waiting for Draco’s response.

‘I was … well, _you_ ’ve been following me around so much,’ Draco said petulantly.

Potter snorted softly. ‘So you _do_ have the Map, Malfoy.’

Draco cursed. ‘What map?’ he retorted stubbornly.

‘Huh … so I cast _Accio_ right now …’ Potter laughed scornfully when Draco instinctively grabbed his pocket. ‘You prat.’

‘I found it in my bag,’ Draco said sulkily. ‘There’s no proof that it’s yours.’

Potter made a sound of disbelief. ‘Don’t be a wanker, Malfoy. You and I both know the Map is mine. Shut up. What are you doing here?’

Draco took his time to get to his feet. He wasn’t about to have this conversation craning his neck to look up at Potter. Potter took another step back and he was once more illuminated by moonlight. He was frowning, face twisted into a look of suspicion and anger – no, not anger, an emotion darker and deeper, something Draco could not decipher. Draco felt a queer responding twist in the centre of his chest.

‘I was following you,’ Draco said coolly. ‘You shouldn’t have a problem with that – like I said, _you_ ’ve been following me.’

‘Yes, but that’s because I _know_ you’re up to something. You didn’t need to stay here to watch me fly for hours,’ Potter pointed out. ‘Why did you?’

Draco’s heart stuttered, his brain screaming out in alarm. Merlin, he was well and truly knackered. He couldn’t think through the thick haze of bone-deep exhaustion. He was cold too, the frost of the grass melting on the back of his robes.

‘Why are you here, Malfoy?’ Potter asked again, his voice hatefully calm.

Draco’s composure snapped. He was bloody tired and he was cold and Potter was standing in front of him, looking fit as hell, his green eyes piercing and knowing. This was punishment for outing him, wasn’t it? Privately, Draco knew he deserved it.

‘Why the fuck not, Potter?’ he snarled, stepping in close to Potter. ‘You’re fit and I like looking at you, all right? Are you bloody satisfied now? Is that what you want to know? I wank to you every night – happy?’

Potter was staring at him, wide-eyed. Draco was close enough to smell the sweat on Potter’s skin, to breathe in a scent that brought him back to Potions classroom for some reason, something wonderful he had smelled there before. Potter’s face was only a hand’s length away from his and Draco could feel the heat of his body.

Potter’s eyes – bright and shining in the darkness – dropped to Draco’s lips and abruptly, perceptibly, _something_ changed. It coiled in the tight space between their bodies, brooding and dangerous, exhilarating and nameless.

Potter was breathing faster, his chest rising and falling rapidly, almost brushing Draco’s. Draco kept his eyes fixed on Potter’s face, tracing at random Potter’s features: strong jawline, broad cheekbones, soft lips shining wet in anticipation. His breath hitched in his throat, his desire coiling deep in his belly, warm and certain.

Potter was closing his eyes, tilting his head up, lips slightly parted, and they were moving closer. The heat of Potter’s body caressed Draco’s skin. Draco was drinking in Potter’s face, feeling as if he could not look at this boy enough. His face was hot, his heartbeat pulsing in his neck. He was closing his eyes, his lips were tingling.

A cloud drifted away and moonlight lanced down on them and Potter recoiled. The yearning Draco saw on his face collapsed into horror when he realised whom he was about to kiss. Draco felt his chest break wide open, his insides grey-pink and slimy with gore and gristle. Potter was already stumbling backwards, shaking his head in disbelief, brandishing his broom like a sword. He twisted around, about to flee like a clawless kitten.

‘You want me,’ Draco spat the words out like poison.

Potter frozen, back still turned to Draco.

‘You want me, Potter, don’t you?’ Draco hated how the question had slipped out, revealing his vulnerability.

Potter looked over his shoulder, face in shadow. ‘I … I _can’t_. You’re … you’re _Malfoy_.’ The name _Malfoy_ never sounded more like Crup dung, like Flesh-Eating Slugs, like Ghoul guts.

Potter fled.

Draco stood, staring after him, and wished Potter hadn’t said anything after all.

 

* * *

 

 

They served their detention with Filch on Friday night. The bitter old Squib set them to the utterly meaningless task of smoothening the scratched surfaces of old desks. Draco thought it would be easy enough until Filch opened the door to the brightly lit storeroom and he saw the veritable mountain of desks.

‘Even with magic, I reckon it’ll take the whole night,’ Filch said with a nasty knowing grin at their appalled faces. ‘Well then, boys, get to it. Mrs Norris and I will be back in a bit – don’t think you can skive now. The Headmaster will hear about it!’

He closed the door with a quiet definite _clack_ and Draco was alone with Harry Potter.

They stood in the only clear space near the door, the towers of old desks terracing up to the ceiling in all directions. In the gaps between the stacked desks, Draco caught a glimpse of the far wall; it was all windows open to the cold night, a breeze slipping in once in a while.

Potter hadn’t looked at him at all. They had met at the door to Filch’s office and Potter glanced past Draco with glazed eyes, determined to pretend Draco didn’t exist. That was what he had been doing the entire week since the almost-kiss at the Quidditch pitch.

Draco, on the other hand, took malicious pleasure in taking the piss at Potter’s expense whenever he could. All the better if he could get Potter to blush – which he had, many times over. Potter never retaliated, though his pet Weasleys were quick to draw their wands and call Draco – rather unimaginatively – a wanker and a tosspot. Granger defended Potter in her own way, by delivering stinging criticism of anything he said in class – and to his chagrin, she was right more often than not.

Potter cleared his throat and took out his wand. Draco whipped around, wand held at the ready. The other boy ignored him, moving past him to the closest stack of desks. He levitated a few desks down to the ground and began murmuring cleaning and repairing spells. Draco didn’t move, watching Potter warily.

Potter kept his head down, his face and body angled away from Draco. After a few long minutes of this, he realised that bloody Potter was determined to ignore him for the rest of the night. Draco made a disparaging sound; Potter stiffened, his hand pausing briefly. Oh, as if he was going to make tonight easy for Potter. Not when he had him alone for the whole night like this.

Potter was sitting at a pea-green desk, waving his wand repeatedly over the badly scratched surface. He didn’t look up when Draco walked over. Draco kicked the table’s leg, causing the table and attached bench to jerk. Potter straightened, but still wouldn’t look up, his fists clenched, every line of his body screaming tension.

‘What’s the matter, Potter? Afraid the ponce might ravish you?’ Draco leered, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Potter’s head snapped up and Draco’s breath hitched in his throat. Potter’s eyes were blazing with raw volatile rage, searing as dragon’s breath. It was the same dark creature Draco had glimpsed in Madam Malkin’s when Narcissa had brought up Sirius Black – the same dangerous creature that promised violence and Draco had stupidly provoked it.

Potter surged to his feet, his wand pointed at Draco’s chest. Draco took a step back, clutching his wand.

‘What do you want, Malfoy?’ Potter asked, his tone deadly serious.

Draco stared at him, looked at his face, remembered what almost happened a few nights ago. He heard himself speaking, the words garbled as mermaid song above land. ‘I want you.’

Potter returned his stare, green eyes glittering with malice. ‘I’ve told you before, Malfoy, I’m not _bent_. Even if I am, I won’t ever want _you_.’

Potter’s words sliced across Draco’s skin. Potter took a step forward, his wand tip touching Draco’s chest. The wand tip sparked, burning through Draco’s robes. Potter’s next words gored Draco in the middle of his chest, leaving him breathless.

‘You’re a Death Eater, aren’t you?’

Potter paused, eyes scouring Draco’s face. ‘I saw the bandage in the Prefects’ bathroom. How exactly is your left forearm hurt, Malfoy?’

Draco was frozen, trapped by Potter’s gaze, his skin screaming in pain where Potter’s wand burned him. He couldn’t think, his thoughts slipping out from under his grasp, slimy as troll snot.

‘Do you think the Dark Lord will conscript sixteen-year-olds into his army, Potter?’ Draco asked, forcing the words out between each shallow breath.

Potter tossed his head irritably. ‘He has no problems trying to kill a one-year-old. Do _you_ think he cares that we are children?’

Draco didn’t reply, unable to bear the scorch of Potter’s wand tip any further. He stepped back, clenching his teeth at the sight of the triumphant gleam in Potter’s eyes.

‘Answer me!’ Potter snapped. ‘I _know_ you’re a Death Eater. Mr Weasley, Hermione, Ron – they wouldn’t believe me, but I _know_. I see the way you are always scratching your left arm and you’re always disappearing off the –’ he stopped himself, but Draco caught the pause and tucked the useful fact away; so he couldn’t be tracked on the Marauder’s Map when he was in the Room.

Potter glared, furious with himself. ‘Look, admit it, Malfoy, you’re a Death Eater!’

‘And if – _if_ – I do, Potter, what are you going to do about it?’ Draco asked, voice pitched low and even. ‘Are you going to send me to Azkaban? Send me to receive the Dementor’s Kiss now – according to the new laws, I won’t even get a trial. Or are you going to just kill me yourself?’

Potter seemed even more incensed by Draco’s words. He jabbed his wand under Draco’s collarbone, looking as if he wished it were a knife.

‘Don’t you try to make yourself out to be the victim,’ he snarled, spittle flying from his lips, his glasses sliding down his nose. ‘You _made_ the choice to be a Death Eater – made the choice to be Voldemort’s!’ He laughed when Draco flinched at the name. ‘And you don’t even dare speak his name? How can you be afraid to _die_ , Malfoy, when you are so ready to kill Muggles and Muggle-borns for _fun_?’

It was a knee-jerk reaction: Draco shoved Potter in the chest, hard, and drew his wand. ‘ _Conjunctivita_!’

Potter sent up a Shield Charm so strong, Draco was shoved back several paces. He slammed into a tower of desks, sending the pile collapsing. Draco dropped to the ground, throwing his arms over his head as the desks crashed to the ground around him, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere.

After a while, the desks stopped moving, the last _thump_ echoing across the room. He was pinned to the ground, hurting all over, his breath rasping in the cramped space beneath the heavy desks. He didn’t dare move, knowing that he could send the whole mess collapsing around him again. His legs were trapped and his right arm caught between two desks, his wand lost. He licked his lips and tasted salty blood.

‘Malfoy?’ Potter’s voice echoed weirdly, thin and high. ‘Malfoy!’

Somewhere, a desk slid and crashed to the ground, sending the desks on top of Draco shuddering. Potter swore loudly.

‘ _Homenum revelio_! Don’t move, Malfoy, I’m going to get you out!’

Draco scoffed. _Don’t move?_ It hurt to even breathe. He was being pressed into the hard stone floor, the old wood grinding his flesh and bones into the ground. He couldn’t bear it for much longer.

He lay there, breathing in stale air, tasting dust and wood and blood. He could hear Potter swearing profusely as he levitated desks. The mountain pinning Draco down was shifting slowly. The weight was taken off his back first and he found that he could move his head. He looked up, craning his neck. Potter floated in the air above him, face set in grim determination, bleeding from various cuts.

‘Found you,’ Potter said.

He carefully moved another desk off Draco’s right arm, reached in and grabbed him. Potter’s arms snaked around Draco’s shoulders and Draco was pulled tight against Potter. They tumbled through the air, Potter’s Levitation Spell gone awry. They landed painfully on top of a slope of desks near the windows. Potter, wrapped tightly around Draco, bore the brunt of their rough landing.

They lay there, breathing heavily. Draco stared up at the ceiling, blood salty and metallic in his mouth, Potter warm and alive beneath him. Carefully, gritting his teeth against the pain, he sat up. The towers of desks had collapsed completely, flooding the entire room with old (now broken) desks. Desks pressed up against the door, blocking their way out.

‘Fuck.’

He glanced at Potter to see how he was taking this. His heart stopped for a moment because Potter was looking straight at Draco, his face raw with fear and disbelief. Draco was abruptly afraid, hands flying to his face. Had he lost an ear?

‘Wha –’

He didn’t have a chance to complete his question because Potter was leaning in and Potter was kissing him.

It was like a dam that burst in Draco’s chest and he was drowning in warm, golden light that swept aside his disbelief, his anxiety. There were only Potter’s soft lips against his, Potter’s warm face against his, Potter’s hard hands digging into his shoulders. Potter’s mouth opened and he was forcing his tongue into Draco’s mouth. Draco let his mouth fall open willingly and Potter was kissing him as if Draco was everything he could ever want to taste.

They parted for the space of a breath and Potter dragged him in again, glasses skewed, eyes wild and unseeing. He pressed Draco down onto the desks, table edges digging into Draco’s back, but any discomfort was worth it because Harry Potter was _kissing_ him, Draco Malfoy.

They kissed for an eternity or a split second until Potter pulled away, panting. Draco gazed up at him, his hands fisted around the front of Potter’s robes. Potter slumped, resting his body weight on Draco, pressing his face against Draco’s collarbone. Draco closed his eyes, savouring the hard lines of Potter’s body pressed against his, Potter’s body heat enveloping him.

Potter was a sloppy kisser. Draco had kissed boys who used their tongue with finesse, who knew how to tease and entice. Potter dove in with no regards for delaying pleasure. He used too much spit and held Draco too tightly. But he was Harry Potter, and on the stint that Draco was kissing the boy he had dreaming of since he was eleven, he had never been more aroused.

Potter was muttering curses under his breath, his lips moving against Draco’s skin. Draco was feeling rather bold so he lifted a hand and placed it on Potter’s head. Potter froze. When he didn’t protest, Draco began to run his hand through the messy mop like he had always wanted to, and oh, Potter’s hair was as soft as he thought it would be. Potter groaned and pressed his face harder against Draco’s chest.

It was a gratifying feeling to know that he had managed to seduce his rival. Potter was the one who had pushed him away earlier, who had rejected him because he was _Malfoy_ , but here he was, holding Draco as if he couldn’t want anything else more. _He_ had kissed Draco.

Potter raised his head, his fear still naked on his face. ‘What have you done to me, Malfoy?’ he whispered. ‘I want to punch you, but I want to snog you at the same time. Did you _Imperius_ me?’

Draco smiled. ‘Potter, if I had, we would have started snogging months ago.’

Potter’s eyes widened. ‘Months? What do you –’

Draco didn’t want to answer any questions, not when he had the Boy Who Lived right where he wanted him, so he pulled him in for another kiss and Potter didn’t resist.

 

* * *

 

Filch came for them two hours later. They had spent thirty minutes arguing and the rest of it snogging. Draco was lying on Potter, his erection straining in his pants, and wondering if it was too soon to offer Potter a blowjob. Once or twice, Draco could feel Potter’s cock pressing against his hip, but Potter always moved away.

The furious hammering on the door caused them to jolt apart. ‘What in the name of Helga Hufflepuff have the two of you done?’ Filch was screaming through the door. ‘Open this door immediately! Potter! Malfoy! You two no-good troublemakers! You wait, you just _wait_ , until I get a professor!’

They listened to his ranting echo down the corridor, punctuated at points by Mrs Norris’ mewing, as he hurried away to seek help from the authority.

‘Well, I suppose we better try to clear a path,’ Draco drawled, cocking his head at Potter.

Potter was frowning, looking down as he straightened his robes, wiped his mouth. Draco felt a splinter of icy terror. The golden haze of a good snogging session was rapidly receding. Of course: what was he thinking? That Potter was going to continue this after tonight? Potter didn’t want to kiss him in the first place.

This was all Draco was going to get.

He should have given Potter the blowjob.

‘Potter,’ he said.

Potter looked at him and Draco saw that monster lurking behind his Boy Hero façade. Something wrenched within Draco’s chest. He had to clench his trembling hands to stop from reaching out for Potter.

‘You tell anyone, Malfoy, and I’m going to pulverise you,’ Potter said quietly, his threat heavy in every word.

He began to slowly make his way down and Draco could only follow him.


	9. Potter's Barter

**_\- Chapter Eight -_ **

**Potter’s Barter**

 

Draco turned the corner and Potter was there. The dark-haired boy strode up to him, eyes hard and gleaming as emeralds, seized him by his wrist and yanked him behind a tapestry. They went through the wall and into a dark stairwell. Potter shoved Draco against the wall and kissed him hungrily. Draco dropped his things and wrapped his arms around Potter, pressing back against Potter just as roughly.

The first time this had happened, Draco was sure Potter was going to hex him. He had said to him, at the end, when the two of them were sitting on the floor of the empty classroom, ‘I thought you didn’t want to do this anymore, Potter.’

Potter only looked at him with savage fury and said, ‘I _don’t_ want to do this,’ before leaning in to kiss Draco again. And it was okay, because the only thing that mattered was that Draco had Potter in his arms.

When Potter was kissing him, Draco could forget the persistent pounding headache that had sprung up behind his eyes, could pretend Zabini and Pansy weren’t still furious at him, could ignore the looming shape of the unfixed Cabinet.

Draco gave himself up to the kiss, knowing only heat and want and longing. He curled his hand on the back of Potter’s head, the dark hair soft between his fingers. Potter pulled away, dropped his mouth to Draco’s neck. Draco shuddered at the touch of Potter’s lips and tongue, wet and hot as fire.

The other boy had shoved his leg between Draco’s thighs so Draco knew Potter could feel his erection throbbing in his pants. Draco let his head fall back, giving Potter more access to his neck, and began to experimentally thrust against Potter’s thigh.

Potter immediately sprang back, his breathing ragged in the tight space. ‘Don’t do that!’ he shouted, incensed.

Draco kept his fists clenched at his sides. ‘Where do you think this is going to eventually lead, Potter?’

Potter shook his head. ‘No. I’m not having sex with you.’

Draco laughed harshly. ‘Fine. _I_ ’ll get myself off then. You can just watch – that’s what you like to do, isn’t it?’ He was pulling his robes up to his waist, hand fumbling beneath to undo the front of his trousers.

‘Stop!’ Potter was backing away. ‘I don’t want to see your bloody cock!’

‘Really?’ Draco breathed, shoving his trousers and pants down. His cock sprang free, undeniably hard.

Potter stopped, eyes fixed on Draco’s cock. Draco spat into his hand, wrapped his hand around himself, and began to pull. Potter couldn’t look away and Draco thought the other boy stopped breathing at points.

This reminded him of the Prefects’ Bathroom, but this was better – a million billion times better because Potter was _right here_ and Draco knew Potter was watching and he knew Potter _wanted_ him. It didn’t take long before Draco climaxed: it was a heady mixture of Potter’s gaze, the skin memory of Potter’s lips and hands, the perfunctory sounds of Hogwarts in the late afternoon echoing down the stairwell. This was illicit; _they_ were illicit.

Draco’s balls tightened and his orgasm was sweeping through him. He suppressed his usual embarrassing little yelp, his body jerking involuntarily. Potter made a sound and lifted up his hand; some of Draco’s spunk had sprayed across his robes, his hand. Potter stared at the silvery substance, and then he glanced over at Draco. Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

Looking at Draco through his lashes, his gaze dark, Potter lifted up his hand and licked it. Draco couldn’t breathe. He reached out and crushed Potter in his arms, his mouth already searching for Potter’s. Draco could taste himself on Potter’s tongue, could feel Potter’s erection pressing against his spent cock.

When he tried to touch Potter, however, Potter shied away and Draco, who didn’t want to spend a moment not kissing Potter when he could be, stopped trying and focused on exploring every little bit of Potter’s mouth instead. Like when he ran his tongue along the roof of Potter’s mouth and Potter made a little moaning sound right into Draco’s mouth.

Potter had no technique in kissing, that was true, but oh, he was _magnificent._

They had been snogging for the past two weeks now, once a day, twice if Draco was lucky. It seemed Potter had his timetable memorised because he always knew when to catch Draco in the breaks between lessons. At night, it would be Draco, consulting the Marauder’s Map, who would seek Potter out.

The Map came in more useful than Draco could have imagined, because it helped him avoid Potter when he needed to be in the Room of Hidden Things. He knew Potter was still suspicious of him. When they weren’t snogging, they were fighting so it wasn’t much of an act the snippy way they behaved to each other in front of others.

‘I don’t understand this,’ Potter said suddenly.

They were sitting at the bottom of the stairwell, leaning against the wall next to each other, arms pressed against each other, the half-empty bottle of Butterbeer Draco had brought sitting between them. The sounds of Hogwarts – chatter, shuffling feet, suits of armour creaking – filtered down to them, the soft sounds of an ordinary school day. Draco was dozing lightly; he had slept only three hours this morning. He opened his eyes, blinking blearily.

‘What?’ he asked muzzily, rubbing his eyes.

Potter was staring at him, eyes intent. He was leaning forward, his legs drawn up, fists clenched on his knees. ‘I don’t understand what we’re doing here.’

Draco smirked. ‘We’re snogging, Potter. You’re on your way to be less of an uptight prude, congratulations.’

‘You are such a pillock,’ Potter snapped. ‘You asked the right question earlier. Where is this leading?’

Draco shrugged, not liking where this was going. ‘Buggering, hopefully.’ He reached out for Potter, but the other boy caught his hand – his left hand – and held it.

Potter fixed him with a stony glare. ‘I said, we’re not fucking.’

‘It sounds to me that you are protesting a little too much,’ he replied coolly, affecting unconcern. ‘What is it, are you scared of taking it up the arse? I promise I’ll be gentle, Potter. Or if you like, I can bottom for our first time.’

Potter’s hand tightened around Draco’s to the point of hurting. Draco frowned, jerking his hand back, but Potter wouldn’t let go.

‘Stop trying to distract me,’ Potter said tersely. ‘Where is this leading, Malfoy? What’s going to happen after … after next term? This is _weird_ and I honestly can’t understand it. One moment we’re hexing each other and you’re breaking my nose, and the next, you’re telling me you _want_ me and you’re wanking in front of me and –’

‘Merlin’s beard, _you_ kissed me,’ Draco interrupted. ‘And what does it matter what happens after? I like what we’re doing _now_. We don’t have to care about _after_.’ _Because there would be no_ after _._

‘So what, we’re just going to stop?’ Potter’s hold was bruising.

Draco gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Well, you’ll have to go back to the female Weasley and have ten red-haired children, won’t you?’

Potter flinched as if Draco had poked a sore wound. ‘Don’t talk about the Weasleys like that!’

‘Like what?’ Draco was goading him, he knew, but when Potter was angry, he kissed Draco like a living wet dream.

‘Like you think they’re lesser than you because they’re poor! The Weasleys have more integrity and honour than your entire family have in a single little fingernail.’

‘You silly little Muggle-lover,’ Draco said contemptuously. ‘In 1832, Benedict Weasley kidnapped and killed six Muggles. He took them into the woods and released them so he could hunt them down like animals. The one who stopped him was Erasmus Malfoy, who was an Auror and went on to become Minister for Magic.’

Potter snorted. ‘You’re trying to make me with one little cute anecdote that the Malfoy family isn’t rotten through and through when your father tried to kill me last year?’

Draco tried to pull away, but Potter held on grimly.

‘I see what you’re trying to tell me and I know there will always be outliers in a family … Look at Sirius and his family. Merlin, even my aunt Petunia! From what I can tell, my mother’s parents seem like nice people … are you trying to tell me you can be different, Malfoy?’

Draco stopped trying to pull away and stared at Potter in utter astonishment. ‘Of course not,’ he exclaimed, offended. ‘I’m hardly as pathetic as that. I have no intention of changing myself to become someone more palatable for _you_. I know you hate me, Potter, but you are also the one who looks like he really wants to suck my cock.’

Potter dropped his hand in disgust. He shook his head. ‘I’m only trying to help you, Malfoy. If you would just tell me that you are a Death Eater, what you’re doing, I could –’

‘Don’t be naïve, Potter,’ Draco said in his most pompous drawl. ‘You don’t care about me. You’re only trying to rationalise this in your head. I know what you’re thinking, “This is Malfoy and he is a pureblood supremacist. He’s called my best friend a Mudblood, he’s called my other best friend a blood traitor. He’s tried to get me into trouble countless of times. He’s loathsome and I hate him.”’

Potter looked stricken. He didn’t want to hear Draco’s words, but he was held fast, as if in the embrace of Devil’s Snare.

‘You don’t think you can possibly want a person like me, but you _do_ and you’re fucking disgusted with yourself. So you’re trying to pretend you’re doing something good, you’re trying to get me to join _your_ side, the so-called right side, so that at the end of this –’ a sharp gesture between them, ‘– whatever this is, you’ll feel better about yourself. Don’t bother, Potter. I’m still a Malfoy and my father’s still a Death Eater dying in Azkaban – and you still want to fuck me.’

Potter struck him, a backhand that caught Draco’s jaw and sent him sprawling over the floor. His ears were ringing, his jaw numb. He tried to get up, but Potter climbed onto him, pinning him to the ground. Draco scrabbled for his wand. Potter flung it aside, using a knee to hold Draco’s right arm down.

Draco gave a throaty scream, trying to buck Potter off, but Potter was heavy on his chest. The dark-haired boy grabbed his left arm. The loose sleeve fell back, exposing the dirty bandage; Draco hadn’t changed it in a while. In a swift, decisive movement, Potter ripped the bandage away.

It was like the release of the final breath as he was sinking to the bottom of a blue-black ocean. He had no more air left in his lungs and he would drown.

The skin around the Dark Mark was inflamed and red, some areas leaking with foul pus, dark veins spreading out from the Mark across Draco’s forearm. The air filled with the sweet, pungent scent of rotting flesh. No matter how much salve Draco applied, it wouldn’t heal.

‘What did you do to yourself?’ Potter was horrified. ‘Are you … are you harming yourself?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Draco hissed. ‘It just takes a while to heal. Get _off_ me.’

‘How many months has it been?’ Potter demanded, releasing him. ‘How did he … how did he give it to you?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not a secret you’re privy to, Potter,’ Draco said snottily, shoving himself up against the wall. ‘Especially not after you forcibly pushed me down.’

‘But it looks –’

‘I know how it looks, Potter,’ Draco snarled.

‘I’ve seen Dark Marks,’ Potter said persistently. ‘And they shouldn’t look like that. You need to see Madam Pomfrey – there must be a potion or a salve or –’

‘Right, I’m sure that will go down well,’ Draco said sarcastically. ‘Good evening, Madam Pomfrey, say, my Dark Mark isn’t healing, do you think you can do something about it? I need it in case the Dark Lord would like to summon me to do his bidding. Oh yes, Potter, _that_ will go down swimmingly.’

‘But that looks dangerous,’ Potter was glaring at him stubbornly. ‘What if it makes you sick? Is that why you’ve been looking so shitty lately?’

‘Thank you,’ Draco retorted. ‘And I don’t need your sodding concern, Potter. You worry about your own affairs.’

‘You _are_ my affair now,’ Potter said in a low, fierce tone. ‘I knew you were up to something from the start, I knew it, and I wanted to stop you. You can believe what you want about why I’m doing this. I don’t care, I’m going to try to _force_ you to do the right thing even if it kills me, so … so you are my affair now.’

Draco worked his jaw, closing his eyes briefly. He breathed in deeply through his nose, through the pain that speared him deep in the chest.

‘Leave me alone, Potter,’ he sounded more tired than he thought he would. ‘You can’t force me to change the way I think. I still think purebloods should rule, that Muggles are inferior beasts. I think –’

‘You think, or your father thinks?’ Potter interjected.

Draco hissed through gritted teeth. He scrambled to his feet, shaking his sleeve down again. Potter stood up with him.

‘Tell me,’ Potter demanded. ‘Tell me why Voldemort made you a Death Eater. What does he want you to do?’

Draco shook his head, picking up his bag. ‘I won’t tell you anything, Potter.’

‘So that’s how it is? You can snog me knowing you’re helping the man who wants me dead,’ Potter spat, his words, his eyes vicious.

Draco’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t breathe, the air driven out of his lungs at the thought of this boy – this vital, wonderful, maddening creature – standing in front of him, _dead_. Dead, and Draco helped to kill him. Potter’s face softened. He moved in close to Draco, brushing Draco’s face gently where he had hit him earlier with the same hand.

‘I see it on your face. You don’t want me dead, Malfoy. Tell me.’

His words were soft, insidious, seductive as the gentle touch on his cheek.

‘I don’t want to be dead even more,’ Draco replied and pulled away from that touch.

He went out through the wall and left Potter behind in the stairwell.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite it all, they couldn’t stay away from each other. As November bled into December, Draco came to know every nook and cranny of Hogwarts very well indeed because they were snogging in every corner of the school. They had kissed sprawled out in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, they had kissed in the locker rooms, they had kissed in countless empty classrooms, and they had kissed in secret rooms the Map showed them.

They kept their secret well enough, although Potter said Granger had been asking him strange probing questions about where he disappeared to during breaks. Draco didn’t want to worry so he shut him up by pulling him back in.

Pansy and Zabini were talking to Draco again. It was Pansy who gave in. She sat next to him in the common room one day and demanded he help her with her Charms homework. He didn’t protest. The next day, when Draco arrived later than usual for dinner (Potter had tackled him as he was coming down from the seventh floor), Zabini pushed him a plate of food he had saved. He had been lonely without Pansy and Zabini, even if he had the Cabinet and Potter to occupy his time.

The Cabinet continued to defy Draco’s attempts at fixing it. It was the linking spell, he knew that much – the spell that bound the component spells together. It was corrupted, but Draco couldn’t figure out what spell it was in the first place. He was still trying to figure out what _kind_ of spell it was. He only knew it was old and tremendously powerful.

He had spent months and months on the ruddy thing and the end was still not in sight. Sleeping or waking, the Cabinet haunted him like a Boggart that could not be vanquished.

His distraction was obvious enough that Potter asked him, point-blank, ‘You’re worrying about it, aren’t you? What Voldemort has you doing.’

It was late at night or early in the morning and they were in Draco’s favourite room, the small storeroom near the kitchens. The walls were made of warm yellow stone and the dim lighting created a sense of intimacy. It was filled with old flat pillows and cushions the house-elves were going to re-stuff, which Draco had arranged on the floor to make quite a comfortable bed.

There were bottles of Butterbeer around them, which Draco had nicked from the kitchens. It had become a habit of sorts, between the two of them, for Draco to bring Butterbeer to their snogging sessions. It was amazing how thirsty snogging could make one.

He was holding Potter, an arm wrapped around him, trailing his hand up and down Potter’s upper arm absently. He blinked, realising that Potter had asked him a question.

‘Maybe I can help,’ Potter suggested.

Draco burst into laughter. Potter hiked himself up onto his elbows, frowning mutinously. His laugher subsiding, Draco shook his head.

‘I still don’t believe that the Sorting Hat offered to put you in Slytherin,’ he said.

Potter had incidentally told him that towards the end of a particularly heated argument last week.

‘Yeah, because there’s no way I can perfect that evil _muahaha_ your lot seemed to have perfected,’ Potter said acidly.

‘Excuse me, nobody laughs like that,’ Draco retorted. ‘And you can’t ever be a Slytherin because you simply don’t have the mind for schemes and subtlety. A Slytherin wouldn’t need force to get someone to admit something. If I were you, I would have been able to get me to reveal my Dark Mark without resorting to punching.’

Potter made a rueful face, slumping down into the pillows again. He slid an arm under Draco, pulling him close. He ran a knuckle over the spot where the bruise had already faded. Draco shivered, curling up into Potter’s embrace.

‘How would you have done it then?’

‘A barter. I would give the other party something they want in exchange for what I want.’

‘Yeah?’ Potter traced his knuckle up Draco’s jawline. ‘Would you have to give something very important or very expensive up?’

‘It depends on what it is I want of course,’ Draco said with slight exasperation. ‘Never exchange it for something below the value of what you’re giving up. And I would do it slow and sweet, so the other party doesn’t find out they are giving it all up until it’s too late to take it back. You have to be sneaky … careful …’

‘Huh.’ Potter was looking at him thoughtfully.

He cupped Draco’s face, running his thumb over Draco’s cheekbone. ‘Merlin, you look like hippogriff vomit.’

‘ _Thank_ you, that was incredibly sweet of you to say,’ Draco simpered, batting his eyelashes.

Potter gave a shout of laughter, genuine mirthful laughter. Draco couldn’t help but smile in response. The first time Draco had heard Potter laugh, it was like having a shot of Invigoration Draught straight into his veins. It made Draco warm and happy and scared all at once.

Potter sobered, leaning in close to examine Draco’s face. ‘You do look very ill, Malfoy. Have you been sleeping more than three hours now?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard when you keep me up half the night,’ Draco replied, closing his eyes and leaning into Potter’s hand.

‘Hmm … should we stop this then?’

Draco sniggered, opening his eyes. He stopped short when he saw that Potter was dead serious. ‘Don’t be stupid. You can’t go a day without snogging me,’ he pointed out.

Potter was frowning, bringing his other hand up to Draco’s face. ‘Tell me what’s bothering you then. Let me help. I can help.’

‘Stop it,’ Draco’s voice came out sharper than he intended. ‘I promise you, Potter, that you cannot help me.’

A muscle worked in Potter’s jaw. He held Draco’s face tighter. ‘Fine, let’s do it your way. Let’s barter. I answer one of your questions – any question you can think of – and you’ll answer one of mine. And you must give me the absolute truth.’ His eyes were sombre and unyielding.

‘No.’

‘You said that’s the way I can get what I want!’ Potter protested, outraged, releasing Draco’s face.

‘I don’t have to play the game if I don’t want to.’ Draco realised the irony of his words the moment they left his mouth and he had to give a snort of laughter.

Potter shot him a quizzical look and shook his head. ‘You’re not being fair. I’m playing by your ruddy rules, Malfoy. It’s not like you’re giving it away for nothing. You get to ask me anything too. Don’t you have things you want to ask?’

Draco considered carefully. There were ways to tell the absolute truth and yet tell him nothing. The privilege of being able to root around in Potter’s head was too tantalising to give up. Reluctantly, he agreed. Potter beamed and Draco’s heart tugged. Impulsively, he gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘What was that for?’ Potter asked, eyebrows raised.

Draco shrugged. ‘Well, get on with it then, Potter.’ Like he would tell Potter he had to give a kiss on the cheek for looking so sodding cute.

Potter gave him a strange look. ‘You’re an odd fish, Malfoy.’

Draco sniffed, tucking his head beneath Potter’s chin. ‘I’m a dragon, thank you very much. Bloody hell, get _on_ with it, Potter.’

‘All right, all right, you prat. You didn’t want to do this in the first place. Godric, you’re fickle-minded,’ Potter wrapped both arms around Draco, slinging a leg over Draco’s hip. ‘Why don’t you play Quidditch anymore?’

Draco laughed, his voice muffled by Potter’s chest. So Potter was going to draw the game out, was he? Well, Draco was more than happy to oblige. ‘I don’t have the time or energy to do it anymore. Do you miss playing Quidditch against me?’

Potter sighed. ‘Bloody hell, you’re not allowed to hold anything I say against me, all right? Yes, yes, I miss playing against you. It’s so much more fun when I win against you and see that look on your face. It’s so _satisfying_.’

‘You’re so competitive.’

‘Me?’ Potter said in mock outrage, tugging on the ends of Draco’s hair. ‘Oh, yeah, I’m the competitive one. What’s your favourite fruit?’

‘Raspberries. What’s yours?’

‘Apples, especially the big ones – they can be rather filling. I bet you live in a posh manor with grounds and all that. Do you have a horse?’

‘A horse? What in Salazar’s name would I want a horse for?’ Draco was confused. ‘They are too big and they’re smelly. No, thank you.’

‘Oh, right, wizards would get around on brooms or Apparate. They wouldn’t need to domesticate animals for travel …’

They continued in this vein for a while, batting questions about favourite colours and childhood dreams until Draco was lulled into a doze, his eyes drifting close. Potter’s arms were warm and the pillows were soft.

Then: ‘Do you really think your father is innocent?’

It was like a splash of ice-cold water. Draco’s eyes shot open. He broke free of Potter’s arms, rising up to look at him. Potter looked at him steadily, his gaze serious and earnest. Draco took a breath, licked his lips.

‘No,’ he said and something on Potter’s face relaxed, as if he had dreading Draco’s answer. He didn’t probe further, merely nodded and waited for Draco to ask his question.

‘What was it like, being raised by Muggles?’

Potter’s face changed, a brittleness sliding over his eyes. ‘I don’t like them, if that’s what you’re trying to find out. They didn’t like me either. I was really happy to find out I’m a wizard, to come to Hogwarts. But I know Muggles aren’t all like them – just like how not all wizards are like the Weasleys or Dumbledore or McGonagall.’

‘What did they do to you?’ Draco asked softly.

Potter grinned at him wryly. ‘My turn, Malfoy. Why do you hate Muggles and Muggle-borns?’

‘Because they’re inferior. Because they’re not our sort. Muggle-borns aren’t proper wizards and witches. They come here and they muck up our world.’ Stock phrases, standard phrases.

Potter knew and his face hardened. ‘The truth, Malfoy.’

Potter’s eyes were so green. Draco felt scoured under his gaze. Potter was stripping him bare bit by bit and he hadn’t even realised. _Oh_. Perhaps there _was_ a little snake in the golden lion after all.

‘I’ve always been told they are inferior,’ Draco said simply. ‘I don’t know what else to think of them. I’ve never spoken to a Muggle and before Hogwarts, all my friends were purebloods or half-bloods.’

‘You don’t have a Muggle-born friend now,’ Potter pointed out.

‘Tracey Davis is a Muggle-born Slytherin,’ Draco said.

He added with slight exasperation at the puzzlement on Potter’s face, ‘She’s in our year, you know. You Gryffindors are so insular. Admit it, you think Gryffindor is the best House and you don’t bother with people from the other Houses. Can you even count a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff amongst your friends?’

‘Is that your question? A waste of it because I do,’ Potter said a mite too defensively. ‘I’m friends with Ernie Macmillan and Luna Lovegood.’

Draco smirked and Potter scowled, knowing that Draco had scored a solid point.

‘It’s my turn. Do you still think Muggle-borns are inferior then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Draco said. ‘I don’t like Granger because she’s an obnoxious know-it-all. Davis is fine, but she is a Slytherin. I don’t really … I don’t really talk to Muggle-borns much, do I?’

‘Hermione isn’t an obnoxious know-it-all,’ Potter said huffily. ‘She’s just really smart and she likes learning and – oh, all right,’ he muttered at the look on Draco’s face. ‘She _can_ be a bit obnoxious sometimes … but I think the two of you would get along really. You would have so much fun arguing with someone who’s finally on the same level as you.’

‘Yeah, if she can look at my face without wanting to punch it,’ Draco said drolly. ‘My turn, Potter. What do you do in Dumbledore’s office for so many hours?’

Potter’s face shuttered immediately. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. Draco sat up too, facing him. For a few long moments, he regarded Draco seriously.

‘Let me ask you a question first,’ he said quietly. ‘I _will_ answer your question and I just … I just need to know something before I tell you.’

‘Okay,’ Draco said.

‘You always put it so crudely, like it’s all about sex, but it isn’t … the thing between us … it isn’t, is it?’

Draco stared at him. How did they go from forsworn enemies to secret lovers rendezvousing in hidden cupboards? Draco couldn’t figure it out. Looking at Potter’s face now, he only felt that it must have been inevitable, the two of them.

‘It isn’t,’ he said flatly, grudgingly, because he didn’t want to make it explicit, didn’t want to put his heart raw and bloody before Potter.

‘Okay. All right,’ Potter looked down at his hands, his glasses sliding down his nose. ‘Dumbledore is giving me private lessons on Voldemort. They are … they are supposed to help me … survive, you know, when he … when he comes for me.’

Draco remembered the red slit eyes, cold and cruel as a snake’s, the high thin voice commanding an execution, a _Crucio_ and his father writhing and screaming in pain at the black-robed figure’s feet.

‘Malfoy,’ Potter said and Draco looked down and saw that he had reached out to take Potter’s hand.

He looked up again, meeting Potter’s eyes.

‘Malfoy,’ Potter said again. ‘What does Voldemort want you to do?’

Draco heard the words come from somewhere far off, from a mouth that wasn’t his. ‘He wants me to kill Dumbledore.’

Instead of drawing away, Potter clutched his hand more tightly. ‘I have to tell Dumbledore this, you know.’

‘If I don’t do it, he will kill my parents,’ Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat. ‘My father is already dying in Azkaban. He has spattergroit. I know you think he deserves to die, Potter, but he’s my father. I can hate him, but I still love him. He was … he was my hero and he taught me how to fly and he taught me how to survive. He’s my _father_ , Potter. Voldemort will kill him and my mother.’

Potter was crushing his hand. ‘Malfoy, we’ll save them, all right? I’ll tell Dumbledore and we’ll think of a way to save your family. You don’t have to serve Voldemort. You can come with me.’

Draco stared at him and knew that Potter honestly believed in Dumbledore. He truly thought Dumbledore could make anything go right, that Dumbledore could save them all. For a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in Potter’s fantasies.

He saw his father being released from prison and his family back in the Manor, safe and whole. He saw himself introducing Potter to his parents as his boyfriend. He saw himself sitting next to Potter at the Weasley shack, sharing a joke with the Weasley twins. He saw himself and Potter holding hands as they strolled down Diagon Alley.

A hole opened up in his chest and he felt he was being eaten up alive. Fantasies, fucking stupid, fucking hopeless fantasies, because magic couldn’t solve all the problems in the world, not even a wizard as great as Dumbledore. Voldemort had bound Draco up in his servitude so securely that he knew there was no escape but death – and Draco wanted to live, desperately.

‘If you tell Dumbledore, I will kill you,’ Draco said simply.

Potter stared at him, eyes bright, muscles taut on his neck. It was silent between them for a long while, neither breaking his gaze.

‘If you continue down this path, you won’t have me anymore,’ Potter said.

‘And _you_ won’t have me anymore,’ Draco replied.

‘I don’t care.’

‘Oh … I think you do, Potter, I think you really do.’

A short, pregnant silence – Potter’s eyes on his face, lingering on his lips; Draco bit his bottom lip the way he had been practising in the mirror – and Potter was grabbing his upper arms, dragging him in. ‘What have you done to me, Malfoy?’ he growled and Draco couldn’t answer it because Potter’s mouth was furiously attacking his.

There was urgency to Potter’s kiss that weren’t there before. He pushed Draco down onto the cushions, bracing himself on his arms on either side of Draco’s head. Draco twined his arms around Potter’s neck, pulling Potter to him as close as they could be. Potter groaned into his mouth, his body flush with Draco’s. Draco could feel Potter’s erection growing against his hip.

Thoughtlessly, even though Potter had pushed him away every time he tried touching him, Draco slipped his hand between their bodies and palmed Potter’s cock through his trousers. Potter’s reaction was astonishing. He tore away from Draco’s mouth, gasping, arching his back and pressing himself harder against Draco’s hand.

Draco laughed, light and giddy. ‘Merlin’s balls, Potter, you bloody hell want it. Why in the name of Circe’s pigs have you been pushing me away?’

‘Because I don’t think I can stop if you touch me,’ Potter said, his voice ragged.

‘Nobody told you to stop,’ Draco replied.

Potter’s eyes were glittering. ‘You asked for it, Malfoy.’

He sank back down against Draco, a hand on the back of Draco’s head. As they kissed, Draco continued rubbing Potter’s erection through his trousers until Potter drew away again, eyes dark with desire. Draco grinned wickedly.

‘Get your kit off,’ he commanded.

Potter returned his grin and began to undress, flinging his robes and shirt off without pausing. Draco drank in the sight of Potter’s lean Seeker body, his long, strong arms, his lightly sculpted chest. Potter visibly shuddered when he caught the look on Draco’s face.

‘Pants,’ Draco said, hitching his knee up and brushing it against Potter’s erection.

Potter gasped, shoving his knee away. ‘You evil bastard.’

Potter unbuckled his belt and kicked off his baggy trousers. Draco’s mouth went dry. He grabbed Potter’s hands before he could pull his pants off. Potter went still as Draco slowly pushed him down. Draco took a moment to savour Potter’s face, lips red and shiny and pupils blown with desire.

He kissed his way down Potter’s chest, eliciting a few groans and ‘ _Fuck you, Malfoy_ ’. At the elastic waistband of Potter’s pants, he paused. He looked up at Potter through his lashes and saw that the dark-haired boy was staring at him. He grinned and breathed down the length of Potter’s cock. Potter jerked, thrusting his hips up.

‘Not yet, Potter,’ Draco chastised.

‘Bloody wanker,’ Potter snarled.

Draco chuckled and licked the head of Potter’s cock through the pants. Potter moaned, throwing a hand over his eyes. Draco began sucking on the head, still through the cloth. Potter was muttering curses under his breath now, most of them aimed at Draco.

Draco smirked, warm with satisfaction, and gave in. He hooked his fingers on the elastic and pulled Potter’s pants down. Potter’s cock sprang up so quickly it nearly smacked Draco in the face. Draco drew back a little so he could have a better look. His mouth watered; fuck, he was such a slag.

He looked up at Potter. Potter’s arm was still thrown over his face. Keeping his eyes on Potter’s face, Draco wrapped his lips around the head dripping precome. Potter hissed, looking down at Draco. Their eyes locked. Slowly, deliberately, Draco swirled his tongue, slipping it into the slit. Potter clenched his fists, but he didn’t take his eyes off Draco’s. Draco licked up and down Potter’s cock, right hand massaging Potter’s balls.

‘Draco,’ Potter said in a strangled voice. ‘I’m going to come soon.’

In response, Draco took the head into his mouth again and began bobbing his head up and down, taking in as much as cock as he could. Potter was cursing again, a hand tangled in Draco’s hair. Draco was watching his face so he knew when Potter was about to come. Potter’s face fell apart, his mouth opening, and there was an expression of exquisite pleasure on his face as his hips thrust, his cock hit the back of Draco’s throat, and he was choking on Potter’s come. He did his best to swallow, but ended up spitting most of it as Potter’s spent cock slipped out of his mouth.

‘A little warning might have been nice,’ he said, his voice a little hoarse.

Potter smiled at him blissfully and Draco found he didn’t quite mind after all.

‘Come here, you filthy little tart,’ Potter said with something akin to affection. He slung an arm around Draco’s shoulders and drew him up. Heedless of his own cum on Draco’s lips, he began kissing Draco very thoroughly.

They parted, gasping. Draco rested his head on Potter’s chest, listening to Potter’s heartbeat.

‘Let’s deal with you now,’ Potter said.

Draco laughed breathlessly. He was painfully, achingly hard in his pants. ‘I don’t want you to suck my cock, Potter. I want to do something else.’

‘Anything.’

‘I haven’t told you what yet.’

‘Anything,’ Potter repeated, giving him that reckless grin that would have won anyone over to join his army. ‘But you should take your robes off first.’

Laughing helplessly, Draco obeyed. His hands felt too big, too clumsy as he undid buttons and flies, Potter’s eyes fixed on his body. Potter licked his lips when Draco pulled his pants off, sending a twitch right to Draco’s cock. With a groan, Potter wrapped his legs around Draco’s waist, dragging him in for a kiss. Draco thrust against Potter, the friction between his cock and Potter’s hip sending glorious jolts of pleasure through him.

‘So? What do you want to do?’ Potter whispered when they parted.

‘This,’ Draco said and pushed Potter off, flipping him onto his stomach.

Draco straddled Potter’s legs, taking a moment to admire Potter’s firm, perky arse. Potter looked over his shoulder, frowning slightly.

‘Relax,’ Draco said, holding the full globes of Potter’s arse in his hands. ‘I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.’

Potter nodded, pillowing his head on his folded arm. It took Draco’s breath away, the trust Potter was showing him. Harry Potter trusted _him –_ even after he had told him he was going to kill Dumbledore. He couldn’t decide who was more insane – Potter for even wanting him or he for actually telling _Harry Potter_ his mission.

‘Are you doing anything yet?’ Potter asked.

‘No … not yet …’

Draco pressed his knuckles at the top of Potter’s arse, slowly kneading his way down. He slapped it a few times, exulting in the way the cheeks wobbled and Potter gasped. Potter’s broken little gasps went straight to his cock. He squeezed Potter’s arse cheeks, the flesh soft in his hands. Merlin, he was falling behind in all his classes, but he could now write a hundred rolls of parchment on a treatise on why Potter’s arse was the most glorious thing in the world.

He slipped a finger down the cleft. Potter gasped, twisting round again to look at Draco.

‘I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,’ Draco said, placing a comforting hand on Potter’s back.

‘I don’t … I don’t think I can take it up the arse yet,’ Potter said in a quiet voice and Draco was floored, because this meant that Potter had actually considered being fucked and allowing Draco to fuck him.

His cock hardened further. His throat was tight. He could only shake his head. He lined his cock up against Potter’s cleft. Potter’s eyes widened. Then Draco started moving, slipping his cock in and out between the cheeks of Potter’s beautiful arse. Potter relaxed instantly, dropping his head back onto his arm, tightening his arse obligingly.

Draco was moaning, thrusting rapidly in and out of the heat between Potter’s arse cheeks. Potter hummed in pleasure, pushing back into Draco’s cock. He liked it. He actually _enjoyed_ the sensation of Draco’s cock between his arse cheeks. These were _Harry Potter_ ’s arse cheeks he was plundering.

‘Fuck, Draco, _fuck_ , you’re so fucking hard,’ Potter hissed.

There was the desire coiled deep and hard, and then the snapping, the release, and Draco came with a yell, his come spurting out in ropes all over Potter’s back. He was swept out into a warm sunlit sea and he was riding the pleasure, cresting the waves that took him away. He fell into the pillows next to Potter and Potter immediately pulled him in a kiss. They were hands grabbing desperately and teeth scraping against sensitive skin and tongues tousling for dominance.

A while later, they lay breathing hard on the now hard floor, the pillows inadvertently shoved away. Their sweaty bodies were pressed close together, legs tangled up, arms thrown around each other. Potter’s head was on Draco’s chest and Draco was gently running his hand through Potter’s hair.

‘My turn to ask a question,’ Potter’s voice was placid.

‘No, it isn’t.’ It really was.

‘Where is this leading to?’

Draco paused. His voice came out gravelly.

‘Wherever you take me, Potter.’


	10. Happy Christmas

**_\- Chapter Nine -_ **

**Happy Christmas**

 

‘Girls can be scary, rather,’ Potter said with a shudder. ‘You should have seen Hermione’s face …’

He was telling Draco about Granger’s revenge on Weasley for hooking up with Brown. Who knew Gryffindors could have love lives as unnecessarily complicated as Slytherins? Draco had always supposed everybody was like Potter, who blundered into things without knowing if it was obtuseness or bravery.

He laughed, cuddling the half-naked Potter more closely to him. ‘Well, I reckon it’s rather brilliant of her. It’s Weasley’s fault for being such a coward.’

‘He isn’t a coward,’ Potter said snappishly. ‘And I really wish you’d stop insulting my friends like that. I don’t go around saying Crabbe and Goyle are morons, Parkinson is a hag and Zabini always looks like he has a stick up his arse.’

‘Why not? It’s true,’ Draco replied. ‘That’s the difference between Slytherins and Gryffindors. You are all so blindly loyal to each other that you refuse to admit the other has flaws. We Slytherins on the other hand are friends despite our flaws because the other person always has something else to offer. Goyle isn’t the sharpest quill in the box, but he is big and scary and that’s good for a skinny boy like me.’

Potter looked considering. He sighed, looking up at Draco, chin on Draco’s chest. ‘Is that really friendship?’ He looked sympathetic.

Draco frowned. Potter was always doing that; if things weren’t done the Gryffindor way, it was wrong and should be changed. ‘Aren’t you friends with Weasley and Granger because they have something to offer you that you lack? Weasley gives you his family and you give him the distinction of being the Boy Who Lived’s best mate. Granger helps you in school and you give her friendship because you are far too kind to push another lonely person away.’

Potter didn’t like Draco’s assessment, not one bit. ‘Why do you have to make it sound so mercenary?’ he demanded. ‘Not everybody thinks like a Slytherin. We’re friends because – because we like each other.’

‘You’d rather pretend friendship is something noble and selfless. Nobody is selfless in this world, Potter. We are only ever do things for our own benefit.’

‘You’re so fucking cynical. What about us then?’ Potter bit his bottom lip, looking as if he wished he could take his question back.

Too late, he had asked it so Draco would answer it. Draco carded his fingers through Potter’s soft hair, trailing down the side of Potter’s face and jaw. The other boy was tense with anticipation, a little frown between his brows.

‘Well, there’s all the snogging and frotting and blowjobs, which are _brilliant_ ,’ Draco said, half-teasing. Potter made a dissatisfied noise. ‘But besides that … what I represent to you is a chance to do something against the Dark Lord because you’re feeling trapped and lost, knowing that you should be out there hunting the Dark Lord down. You think if you can win me over to your side, you’re doing something to thwart him. That’s what I give you – a battlefield against the Dark Lord.’

Potter’s eyes were dark and serious, unflinching from Draco’s face. Draco took Potter’s chin in his hand, tilting his head back slightly.

‘And to me, you are … a distraction,’ he said. ‘When you are sucking my cock, I don’t have to think about my dying father and …’ He shrugged, nodding at his bandaged left forearm.

Potter rose up, bracing himself against Draco’s chest. ‘If all you want from me is blowjobs, why do you look at me like that?’ The words were poison-tipped barbs lodged in Draco’s lungs. He thought he could hear his breath rattling in his hollow rib cage.

‘Like what?’

Potter pressed his fingertips against Draco’s left cheekbone, tracing the curve down. ‘Like this,’ he said and deliberately kissed Draco to the left of his mouth. ‘Nobody has looked at me like that before.’

Draco closed his eyes. ‘I don’t look at you in any particular way, Potter.’

‘Right, if you say so, Malfoy,’ Potter said dryly.

He sat up and Draco could hear him starting to dress. Potter had Charms with the Ravenclaws next; Draco had Arithmancy.

Draco opened his eyes a crack. He loved watching Potter dress, loved the way his back muscles slid and flexed under his smooth skin. He reached out, pressing a hand against Potter’s back. Potter looked over his shoulder and grinned cheekily. He bent over to drop a quick kiss on Draco’s lips.

‘Are you going for Slughorn’s Christmas party?’ he asked.

Draco grimaced. ‘I wasn’t invited.’

‘Pity – would be nice to see you there. I’m not keen on going,’ Potter said heavily. ‘Bloody hell, Hermione was saying that girls might try to slip me love potions.’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard a few conversations about that.’

‘What?’ Potter glared at him. ‘And you didn’t tell me? Or try to stop them?’

Draco smirked. ‘Oh, I’m not worried, Potter. You’ll come back to me in the end.’

Potter jabbed him in the side. ‘Prat.’

Draco stretched luxuriantly, earning him a lingering look. He sat up and began to dress as well. ‘Who are you bringing then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Potter sighed.

‘Poor Scarhead, too popular for your own good,’ Draco teased.

‘Tosser,’ Potter said, leaning in for a kiss.

Draco slipped a hand to the back of his head, kissing Potter deeply, biting on Potter’s bottom lip before pulling away. Potter grinned, scrambling to his feet.

‘You’re wrong by the way,’ he said casually, hitching his bag on his shoulder. ‘You’re not a battlefield against Voldemort. I’ve already won you. You’re mine.’

Draco caught the ruddy flush blotch on Potter’s cheeks before he opened the door and dashed out, leaving Draco alone in the disused classroom. Draco stood up slowly, straightening his tie, brushing the dust off his robes. He Vanished the empty bottles of Butterbeer. _You’re mine._ A delicious shiver stole down his spine.

He was smiling when he opened the door and came face to face with Zabini. The world shifted beneath his feet and he thought he was falling, a Freezing Spell cast straight into his chest. Zabini was staring at Draco as if he did not know him, his face pale.

They stared at each other, unmoving.

Then Zabini spoke and it was like an iceberg had sloughed off a white cliff and crashed into the frozen sea. ‘Harry Potter. You Imperiused Harry Potter.’

‘No.’

Zabini slammed his hands into Draco’s chest, driving him backwards. The door swung shut behind him. Draco staggered back, hitting a desk.

‘Are you fucking _insane_?’ Zabini hissed, grabbing the front of Draco’s robes. ‘You used an Unforgiveable on _Potter_? Are you _suicidal_?’

‘I didn’t!’

Zabini wasn’t listening. He shook Draco roughly. ‘Is this what the Dark Lord really wants you to do? Seduce Potter? Prostitute yourself in service of the Dark Lord? Be the Dark Lord’s _whore_? I knew – I _knew_ – you weren’t telling the truth!’ He shook Draco harder. ‘He doesn’t want something in the castle – you’re not fixing anything – you’ve been sneaking off to snog Potter all along! You _slut_ , you’re a filthy little cockslut, Malfoy! Salazar Slytherin, _Harry Potter_?’

‘I didn’t Imperius Potter!’ Draco shouted, wrenching himself away. ‘ _You_ ’re fucking insane! I don’t know what you think Potter and I were doing, but we’re not fucking snogging. We were serving our detention all right? Filch gave us extra for breaking all those desks that night.’

‘Bloody likely!’ Zabini snarled. ‘I was coming up the stairs when I saw Potter rush down, beet red and hair worse than usual. He looked like a boy who just had a long snogging session. I go into the classroom, wondering whom Potter is shacking up with, and whom do I find? _You_. How can you be so bloody stupid, Malfoy?’

He raised a hand to hit Draco again, but Draco stepped away, gripping his wand anxiously.

‘I’m _not_ Imperiusing him!’ he yelled.

‘Potter isn’t even bloody gay!’ Zabini screamed back. ‘You are _unbelievable_ – how could you have stooped so low?’

‘I _didn’t_!’ Draco shrieked, his frustration and outrage boiling over. ‘For fuck’s sake, Zabini, I didn’t Imperius Potter. _He_ kissed me! He wants this as much as I do. Don’t ask me why – I don’t fucking know. I just … I would _never_ use the Imperius Curse on him. I wouldn’t. How can you think that of me?’

‘Easily,’ Zabini growled, flicking a derisive eye at Draco’s Dark Mark. ‘I thought I knew you, Malfoy. I thought that even though your family is scum, you had _some_ decency, that there were certain levels you would never stoop to. Morgana’s sagging tits, Malfoy, I thought there was hope for you.’

He shook his head, backing away. He turned away as if he could not bear to look at Draco any longer.

‘You’re _disgusting_ ,’ Zabini spat.

Without another look at Draco, he strode away, tearing the door open and disappearing down the corridor. Draco stood alone, gripping the edge of the desk behind him, the sound of his heart thunderous in his ears.

 

* * *

 

Draco was now dead to Zabini. He didn’t just ignore Draco; Draco simply didn’t exist. To his credit, he didn’t tell anybody why he had cut Draco so completely. Nott, Millie and Tracey Davis, whom they weren’t close to, thought it was only another tiff; they knew Draco pissed people so easily. Pansy worried.

She tried getting both of them to tell her what was wrong to no avail. Zabini was a master at redirecting the flow of conversation and Pansy was far too weak against him to convince him otherwise. Draco was tight-lipped and nothing Pansy said or threatened to do could get him to say anything.

Crabbe and Goyle were … well, they were Crabbe and Goyle. In the past few months, Pansy had become more of their leader than Draco had. It seemed they took their lead from her now, which suited Draco fine because it gave him more freedom to duck into dusty cupboards with Potter.

‘A little more,’ Potter whispered breathlessly, nipping at Draco’s neck. He had taken Draco and pinned him against the wall of the cupboard by his wrists.

Draco groaned, pushing Potter away slightly. ‘No, you have Quidditch practice. You’re the captain, you prat.’

‘Hmmm …’ Potter nuzzled the underside of Draco’s chin with his nose. ‘Godric, Ron will kill me for this, but I’d rather give you a blowjob than go for practice.’ Draco’s cock twitched in interest. ‘The team’s a mess and … I’m terrible at being captain.’

‘What is this?’ Draco demanded, breaking Potter’s hold and taking Potter’s chin. ‘Is that self-pity? Don’t give me that bollocks, Potter. You won’t find any sympathy here.’

Potter rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Malfoy. I expect everything but sympathy from _you_. Fine, _fine_. It’s time to put on my big boy trousers and be a proper captain.’

Draco smirked, pecking him on the lips. ‘That’s my boy.’

Potter deepened the kiss, sucking hungrily at Draco’s bottom lip. His hands trailed down Draco’s waist, landing on his arse. He squeezed. Draco gasped, breaking the kiss. He pushed Potter back none too gently.

‘Enough,’ he said firmly, ignoring the pleading look Potter shot him. ‘Merlin’s beard, you’re such a horny git.’

‘Oh, shut it. I’m like any other sixteen-year-old boy,’ Potter grumbled. ‘I’ll see you tonight then?’

Draco hesitated then shook his head. ‘No. I can’t tonight. I’m busy. Don’t you have Slughorn’s Christmas party tonight?’

Potter frowned, but thankfully didn’t pursue it any further. ‘Yes, well, I was thinking of a private after party. If you change your mind … you know where to find me.’ He gave Draco a brilliant grin and ducked out of the broom cupboard.

Draco followed fifteen minutes later. The corridor was in the emptier higher levels in the northern part of the castle, precisely why Potter had chosen it. Draco beat the familiar path up to the seventh floor.

He entered the Room of Hidden Things, feeling the invisible weight settle around his neck again. He manoeuvred through the leaning towers of broken things and came to the Cabinet. It loomed out of the greyness, squatting amidst heaps of unwanted things.

The Cabinet was slumped to one side, on account of the broken leg; Draco had to shove old books beneath it to keep it straight. It was once a deep varnished black with sparkling glass doors. The glass was broken now and the black had faded to a whitish-grey. There was Fanged Fungus growing on the inside where water had got in.

Draco set his things down, took a deep breath and spoke the incantation that awoke the spells. The Cabinet’s wood began to glow with green and blue and pink. He rolled his sleeves up and got to work.

When he looked up again, night had fallen and his alarm charm was chirping. He blinked blearily, his vision still streaked with the colours of the spells. He flicked his wand, turning the alarm off. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, looking around the Room.

The precarious stacks stretched out far as the eye could see, a mountain range of trash. There had to be a window (and a wall) somewhere – Draco could taste the teeth-achingly cold night air and hear the random call of a bird – but standing where he was, he couldn’t see it.

Stretching, rubbing his sore neck, he cast a quick Tempus spell. 10pm, so Potter would still be at Slughorn’s party. Draco’s stomach rumbled. A quick bite, and he could be back here in half an hour. Perhaps if he finished early, Potter could still be waiting for him.

As he made his way down, he indulged in a few daydreams about Potter. Maybe after the Christmas party, Potter would be in enough of a holiday spirit to let Draco give him a rimjob.

Down in the kitchens, the house elves loaded him up obligingly with food. His former house elf, Dobby, gave him a particularly large pitcher of pumpkin juice with a roguish grin and a ‘You need your energy, Former Young Master Draco.’

Draco left with his arms laden with food and the dawning realisation that the Hogwarts house elves didn’t miss much. His mind wandered towards the sex lives of house elves and he shuddered. It was wrong somehow, wondering how house elves got off; it was like imagining your granny going at it.

He was pacing in front of the tapestry entrance when Filch appeared at the end of the corridor. He caught sight of Draco and instantly turned puce with excitement. ‘A student out of bed,’ he shouted, pointing an accusing finger.

Draco froze, wondering if he could just duck into the Room. He realised that would reveal the Room’s location to Filch and sighed deeply. Filch was already pelting up the corridor to him, accompanied by Mrs Norris as always.

‘Night-time prowling – _forbidden_ night-time prowling!’ he muttered. ‘Oh, you are in trouble, you are!’

‘I’m on my way to Professor Slughorn’s party,’ Draco said in his most imperious, assured manner.

Filch’s self-righteous outrage wavered and then hardened. ‘It started hours ago!’

‘Well, yes, I’m late,’ Draco stated flatly. ‘I’ll be going then. Good-bye.’ He swivelled around, but Filch’s hand landed hard on his shoulder.

‘Oh no, you don’t. You say you are heading for the party? All right, we will check with Professor Slughorn together! Come with me, you little brat.’

Draco rolled his eyes and followed. He began eating the sandwich the house elves had fixed for him. Filch was muttering gleefully under his breath, occasionally addressing Mrs Norris. If Draco weren’t so irritated, he would have felt pity for Filch. Imagine being unable to do magic when you were surrounded by it, and the brats who had magic wouldn’t use it properly; they wasted it on silly pranks instead, making more messes for Filch to clean up.

If Filch was Dumbledore’s hire, the Headmaster was kind to the point of cruelty. It would have been so much better to turn Filch away, to force him into the Muggle world, where he might be happier – or no, that might be a cruelty as well, being forced out of the world he was born into. Draco shuddered, grateful for a moment to be a proper pureblood wizard.

The sound of a raucous party rolled out of the brightly lit doorway in front of them. The room beyond seemed packed with people. Filch grabbed Draco’s arm and yanked him in after him. ‘Come on!’ he commanded with a nasty grin.

Filch marched Draco through the room. Draco caught a sense being swathed in a gigantic Christmassy tent. Staring faces swirled around him, people turning to look. Filch brought him directly to Slughorn, whom Draco saw to his dismay was standing with Snape. Behind the two professors were Potter, Lovegood and Trelawney. Potter perked up when he saw Draco, a smile already growing on his face before he realised they were in public. Draco sneered, mentally censuring Potter for his carelessness.

‘Professor Slughorn!’ Filch wheezed. ‘I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?’

Draco felt a flash of irritation; he could feel stares boring into his back. He yanked himself free from Filch’s grasp and snapped, ‘All right, I wasn’t invited. I was trying to gatecrash, happy?’

‘No, I’m not! You’re in trouble now! The Headmaster said no night-time prowling without permission, he said,’ Filch was aglow with triumph; any pity Draco might have felt earlier had vanished.

Potter was smirking at Draco, shaking his head. Draco ignored him.

‘That’s all right, Argus, that’s all right,’ Slughorn said, waving his hand expansively. ‘It’s Christmas, and it’s not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we’ll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco.’

Draco suppressed a grimace. Merlin, what a waste of a night. Snape was frowning at him; Draco had managed so well to avoid him for so long. The only upside to this was perhaps Potter might be amenable to sneaking out early.

‘Thank you, Professor Slughorn,’ Draco said as Filch slinked off, muttering mutinously under his breath, shooting evil little glares at Slughorn and Draco.

‘It’s nothing, nothing,’ Slughorn said. ‘I did know your grandfather, after all …’

‘He always spoke very highly of you, sir,’ Draco said; a bald-faced lie, because Abraxas Malfoy was deep in the throes of dottiness by the time Draco was born.

Slughorn seemed to appreciate the lie though because he beamed beneficently at him. Behind him, Potter made a show of rolling his eyes and gagging. Draco wanted to simultaneously smack him on the back of the head and snog him silly.

‘I’d like a word with you, Draco,’ Snape said suddenly.

Draco’s stomach clenched.

‘Oh, no, Severus,’ Slughorn said. ‘It’s Christmas, don’t be too hard –’

‘I’m his Head of House and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be,’ Snape said brusquely. ‘Follow me, Draco.’

With so many people watching them, Draco had little choice but to trail after Snape. He set his jug of pumpkin juice down on a nearby table, looking up to see Zabini staring at him. Zabini’s gaze was glacial. Draco looked away and hurried after Snape.

Snape led him to the classroom at the end of the corridor, lighting up the room with a flick of his wand. Another wave of his hand closed the door quietly. He whirled around to face Draco, his severe black robes flapping around his ankles.

‘What are you doing, Draco? Trying to smuggle a cursed necklace into the school?’ Snape gritted out.

For a moment, Draco could not figure out what Snape was talking about. Then he remembered his aborted plan to kill Dumbledore using a cursed necklace. So much had happened since then: first and foremost, he was now snogging Harry Potter.

‘What cursed necklace?’ he asked, deciding denial was his way out of this.

Snape’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘Don’t be so damnably foolish! You used to come to me with your problems – I can help you, but I can’t if you keep making such silly mistakes. You cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled –’

‘I didn’t have anything to do with it, all right?’ Draco snapped.

‘I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it.’

‘Who suspects me? Oh, right, Potter, is it? I’m not worried about him,’ Draco sneered. ‘For the last time, I didn’t do it, okay? That Bell girl must’ve had an enemy no one knows about –’ There was an intensely focused look on Snape’s face, the one his father told him meant your opponent was about to perform Legilimency. He immediately brought up his mental shields, which, with great difficulty in his fourteenth summer, his father had forced him to hone.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Draco said, furious. ‘I know what you’re doing, I’m not stupid, but it won’t work – I can stop you!’

‘Ah … Lucius has taught you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?’

At that, the Dark Mark on Draco’s arm seared and he suppressed a gasp. He clapped his right hand over his left forearm, stepping back from Snape, who regarded him dispassionately.

‘I’m not trying to conceal anything from _him_ , I just don’t want _you_ butting in,’ Draco snarled.

What thoughts was he trying to conceal from the Dark Lord? Oh, if Snape only knew, the truth would destroy him and Draco would laugh to see it. He couldn’t figure out why Dumbledore trusted him. Just look at the bloke; every inch of him screamed _I am a Dark wizard! I wank to the thought of Dark Arts in sexy pants!_ It was one thing to be a Dark wizard. It was another to be a traitor.

‘So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realise that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco –’

‘So put in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!’ That would be _rich_.

‘You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things,’ Snape said shortly.

‘You’d better stop telling me to come to your office then!’

‘Listen to me,’ Snape said, leaning forward, his voice low. ‘I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco.’

Surprise jolted through Draco. The Unbreakable Vow? Snape would swear upon his life – his own life – to protect _him_? But why? Draco had liked Snape enough because he was a good Potions master and when he got him one-on-one, he was a decent teacher. Snape came over to dinner a few times and were friends with his parents, but he didn’t think Snape had affection enough for him to take the Unbreakable Vow to protect Draco. He stared at Snape, bewildered.

‘Tell me your plan, Draco. I can help you.’ Snape sounded sincere, his dark eyes shining like beetles in the shadows.

It was almost uncanny how like Potter he sounded. Draco suppressed a gurgle of hysterical laughter. ‘I’ll – I’ll think about it,’ he said.

Snape considered him for a few seconds and then he nodded slowly. ‘Yes, all right. You think about it. Your parents and I – we only want to keep you safe,’ he said. ‘Do you understand that?’

Draco nodded, balling his fists.

‘Good,’ Snape said briskly. ‘Shall we return to the party then?’

‘You go ahead,’ Draco said. ‘I … I need a moment.’

‘All right,’ Snape said and as he passed, he patted Draco on the shoulder. He looked rather discomfited and disappeared swiftly out the door.

Draco collapsed onto a seat, covering his face with his hands. Merlin, he was tired. He heard the quiet footsteps, the slither of clothing against the doorframe, and the door closing. He smelled Potter before he felt him: Potter always smelled like soap and dust for some reason. He leaned into Potter’s embrace, his eyes still closed.

Potter straddled the bench to his right, arms around Draco. ‘What’s an Unbreakable Vow?’

‘He dies if he breaks his promise to my mother – to protect me.’

‘Huh … I didn’t think it was possible for Snape to care for someone else enough to make such a vow,’ Potter sounded bemused.

Draco opened his eyes. Potter was gazing off unseeingly, a troubled frown on his face.

‘He was offering to help me kill Dumbledore,’ Draco said. ‘You know, he has been spying for the Dark Lord since the beginning.’

Potter gave him a wry smile. ‘Well, _we_ believe that he has been spying for Dumbledore since the beginning.’

‘You can’t tell the truth when it comes to double agents, can you?’ Draco said with some disgust. ‘Where do their loyalties really lie?’

‘Snape would know best I suppose,’ Potter said thoughtfully. ‘Dumbledore really trusts him though and that is enough for our side.’

‘… But not for you.’

Potter shrugged, screwing his face up. ‘He hates me. I hate him.’

Draco laughed, nudging him a little in the stomach. ‘Well, you could have said the same about us, and look where we are now. Are you going to start snogging Snape too?’

Potter gave him a look of genuine disgust. ‘Don’t even joke about it!’

Draco snickered. ‘I would buy tickets to watch though, if you start snogging Snape. Do let me know, won’t you, love?’

Potter stiffened. Draco frowned at him quizzically and then realised what it was he had just said. His cheeks flooded with heat.

‘No – I meant it as a – No, I didn’t mean it like _I love you_ – bollocks, I just – Potter, you don’t have to take it seriously – I’m only joking, honestly!’ he was babbling, feeling as if he might drown in humiliation. He was trying to break free of Potter’s arms, but Potter’s hold was solid as cast iron.

‘You prat.’ Potter’s tone stopped Draco.

He peered up at Potter cautiously. Potter was smiling, warm and certain. There was a look in his eyes that caused Draco to swallow hard. Draco found himself reaching up to frame Potter’s face in his hands. He tilted Potter’s head back a little, their eyes still locked.

‘Tosser,’ Draco breathed.

‘Wanker,’ Potter said, still smiling that wonderful smile of his, the smile that filled Draco’s chest with butter-yellow sunlight.

Draco kissed him, slow and sweet. He kissed Harry Potter as he worshipped him for the wonderful, improbable creature that he was. He savoured the taste of the Boy Who Lived, the taste of sweet punch in his mouth and the eagerness with which he responded to _him_. He poured himself into the kiss the same way he had been pouring his magic into the broken Cabinet. It wouldn’t matter if there were gaps between Potter’s fingers and some of Draco disappeared forever; he only wanted Potter to hold him as he was, at least for a second.

They parted and Potter was staring at him, eyes dark with yearning. ‘Dra –’

The door opened quietly. They turned to look. Hermione Granger stood in the doorway, pale with horror. Her wand was steady in her hand as she pointed it at Draco’s forehead.

‘Harry,’ she said calmly. ‘Come here.’

Potter looked as horrified as she did. His arms instinctively tightened around Draco. ‘Hermione – I – we – this – your wand – put your wand away!’

‘Harry,’ she said again. ‘Come _here_. Please.’ Her voice broke on the last syllable.

Potter swallowed, the sound audible in the silent room. ‘Hermione. Calm down. Put your wand away. I can explain.’

‘No,’ Granger said, her eyes never leaving Draco’s. ‘You can’t, Harry, because you’ve been poisoned. Zabini told me about the potions you stole.’

And Draco knew it was over. So this was how the world ended. Not with green light, not in fire or flood, but with words, coldly spoken. Gently, he detached himself from Potter’s grasp and stood up. He smiled at her mockingly, spreading his hands open. ‘Well, Granger? Aren’t you going to hex me?’

‘Malfoy,’ Potter hissed, surging to his feet and grabbing Draco’s arm. ‘Don’t goad her! She punched you, remember?’

‘Step away from Harry,’ Granger said, indicating with her wand.

Draco obliged, still wearing his sardonic little smile. Potter stepped forward, placing himself between Granger’s wand and Draco.

‘Hermione,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘No violence, remember? Look, I can explain, really. Malfoy and I –’

‘When did you last give him a dose?’ Granger asked, ignoring her best friend entirely.

‘Last night,’ Draco said. ‘It should wear off soon … half an hour, I think.’

‘Good,’ she said, her voice filled with disgust. ‘Dumbledore will hear about this, Malfoy. You will be expelled for this.’

‘Expelled?’ Potter looked between the two of them with complete bewilderment. ‘Hermione, look, it’s just snogging. You don’t have to tell Dumbledore, for Merlin’s sake. He doesn’t want to know about our love lives! Don’t be ridiculous.’

Draco started to laugh and he couldn’t stop, not even when Potter tried to go to him and Granger hauled him back.

‘ _Petrificus totalus_!’ She shot the spell right at his back. ‘ _Wingardium leviosa_!’

Draco’s laughter, which was tearing at his chest, stopped eventually and he was left with half his chest cleaved out, watching as Granger manoeuvred a frozen Harry Potter towards the open door. Potter’s green eyes were filled with rage. They swivelled to look at Draco, the rage dissolving into confusion and longing.

‘You’re pathetic,’ Granger spat and walked out, taking Potter with her.

Draco began laughing again because that was the only thing he could do as agony ripped into his chest and tore his heart apart.


	11. Serpent Garden

**_\- Chapter Ten -_ **

**Serpent Garden**

 

‘I must say, I didn’t think it was possible of _you_ , Young Master Malfoy, to be so … creative,’ Yaxley drawled. The blond man was sprawled over the loveseat, his muddy boots up on the end table. Narcissa Malfoy was eying him with pinched-lip resentment.

Draco, sitting at the window with a book open on his lap, looked at the Death Eater and despised him. The uncouth man burped loudly and yelled for a house elf. Cherry appeared with a _pop_ , looking quivery. The wizard shoved his empty plate at her, commanding her to come back with more food. Cherry looked at Narcissa, who nodded. The house elf disappeared.

They were gathered in the drawing room, which the house elves had decorated exuberantly for the Christmas holidays. The walls dripped with colour-changing tinsel and fairies giggled from their nests in the wreaths and fir trees.

Draco had just been dismissed from attending the Dark Lord in what used to be Lucius Malfoy’s study. Lord Voldemort had been amused by Draco seducing Harry Potter, amused enough to release Lucius Malfoy from Azkaban. Draco’s father was now resting in a room upstairs, cared for by two house elves.

The other Death Eaters were watching Draco avidly for a response to Yaxley’s taunt. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother shake her head slightly. He ignored her and closed his book. He shifted his position, facing Yaxley. Everybody in the room stiffened, feeling the change in the tension.

‘Since you are so kind to address me as Young Master, remove yourself from the room immediately. We do not permit servants in the drawing room,’ Draco said flatly.

Yaxley sat up quickly, face bright red as titters of amusement curled around the room. He glared around at the others, but he had never been popular. Leaping to his feet, he drew his wand.

‘You think you can play with the big boys now, do you, Malfoy?’ he sneered. ‘Let us see it then, put your wand where your mouth is – oh, no, wait, perhaps you should take Potter’s cock out of it first.’ He roared with laughter, joined by a few.

On her pristine cream couch, Narcissa Malfoy winced.

Draco crossed his legs, tapping his fingers on the cover of his book. ‘I don’t understand. Was that supposed to be insulting? At least Potter’s cock is clean and big and tastes good. More than I can say about _your_ tiny, disease-ridden, rotting piece of shit. I’m afraid that’s one too many rent-boys you’ve been visiting.’

Yaxley snarled, brandishing his wand. Draco put up a Shield Charm with a little wave of his hand. The brutal-faced Death Eater snapped his wand down again, casting another _Crucio_. Draco made a show of yawning, setting his book aside and standing up, maintaining his Shield all this while.

‘Pathetic,’ he said, tossing his head at Yaxley dismissively before striding out of the room. Yaxley continued to hurl insults and curses at his back. The other Death Eaters didn’t intervene, merely stared as Draco walked away, having won the fight.

He only let his Shield drop when he was out of earshot. He slumped against the wall, his arm trembling. A headache was pulsing at the back of his head. Merlin, the Shield had taken more out of him than he liked to admit.

‘Draco.’

Narcissa had followed him out of the drawing room. He straightened up immediately, turning around to face her. Her face was porcelain-white and taut with concern. She touched his face briefly with her fingertips.

‘My boy, are you all right?’

‘Fine, Mother,’ he said.

She hesitated, blue eyes flicking up and down his face. Then she shook her head and took him by his arm. ‘Come on.’

‘I was going to my room to dress for dinner,’ he protested.

‘You can spare a minute for your old mother,’ she said lightly.

Draco relented because well, this was his mother after all, and he would spare her all the time he had in the world. They went out of the house, following the path through the gardens to the secret one hidden in plain sight. They went up to the Grecian-style gazebo in the western part of the gardens and after walking round it in a particular way, stepped out the other side and into Serpentina Malfoy’s Garden – or as Draco called it when he was a child, Serpent Garden.

He stood at the top of the steps, breathing in deeply the heady scent of jasmine and roses. Spread out before them in neat plots arranged around neat paths were blooming bushes of every kind of flower. Serpentina loved flowers and took painstaking care to import flowers from other lands to plant in her small garden.

Here, they were safe for the moment. There was something akin to the Fidelius Charm on the garden. If one were not aware of it, there was no way it could be found.

He followed his mother to their favourite spot: the fountain of Persephone in the Serpent’s heart. Persephone’s statue bore Serpentina’s face; Malfoys were inexcusably vain. They sat and Mother took Draco’s hands into her lap.

‘Harry Potter matters to you,’ she said without preamble.

Draco, who thought his heart had died, was surprised to feel a sting. He nodded.

‘Why did you give him Amortentia?’ Narcissa was being uncharacteristically gentle. Usually, whenever Draco made a mistake, her castigation would be even more searing than Father’s.

‘I didn’t, at first,’ Draco said, dropping his eyes to their hands. ‘When he first kissed me, it was of his own volition, I swear. The second time he kissed me, he acted as if it was completely against his will and he hated himself for it. So I … I had already stolen the Amortentia … I thought since he was the one who kissed me first, it was all right because … he _did_ want me, you see? I only ever put in a little bit. I just … I didn’t want it to stop.’

There was a lengthy pause.

‘Look at me, Draco,’ she said.

Reluctantly, he looked up. There was a look of clear frankness on his mother’s face.

‘I love your father,’ she said. ‘But it is a love borne out of the years we spent together. I was never in love with him and I never will be, so I cannot say I understand the kind of pain you are going through. What I can say is this: forget it. Forget him.

‘Why did you do it, Draco? Nothing will ever come out of it. His side will win or our side will win. Either way, there won’t ever be a world where the two of you can be together. And he will hate you now, knowing what you did to him. He won’t be able to trust you again. You have to forget him.’

Narcissa’s eyes were swimming with tears. She reached up, placing a hand on the back of Draco’s neck, leaning her forehead against his. She closed her eyes, her tears slipping down her cheeks, perfect as pearls.

‘I’m sorry, my son. I must say it to protect you. You have to forget him,’ she whispered, her breath smelling strongly of wine. ‘I cannot bear to see you like this … like the light in your world has gone out. _Please_ , my son, _forget_ _Harry Potter_.’

Draco sat there in the idyll of his childhood garden, holding his weeping mother in his arms. He felt her tears seep through the front of his robes, hot and burning against his cold skin. He closed his eyes, feeling the breeze on his dry cheeks.

He had no tears.


	12. Sectumsempra

**_\- Chapter Eleven -_ **

**Sectumsempra**

 

Potter approached him at the end of Potions class. Weasley and Granger flanked him, faces hard with fury; their fighting had apparently been forgotten in support of Potter. Draco paused in the midst of shoving his parchment into his bag. Around them, the class fell into a hush, most of them remembering the way Harry Potter had viciously attached Draco in the Great Hall on the first day back from the holidays. Potter had been stripped of his Quidditch captaincy and given three months of detention for that.

‘The Map,’ Potter said, holding his hand out. His eyes were filled with black loathing, his upper lip curling as if Draco was something rancid.

Draco looked at him coolly and lifted his shoulder up in a half-shrug. ‘What map?’ he asked, continuing to pack.

‘The. Map,’ Potter said with deliberate slowness, his outstretched hand already curling into a fist.

Draco looked at him and saw that his hair was sticking out at the back and remembered the way Potter liked it when Draco gently scratched his scalp as he kissed him. Potter’s face changed, the monster that bayed for Draco’s blood coming to the fore.

Draco looked away, feeling the ghost of the ache in his arm where Potter had broken it. Potter hadn’t looked human when he was rearing over Draco, spewing insults and screaming vulgarities, spittle flying from his mouth as he stamped down on Draco’s left forearm again and again and again. Snape had come to Draco’s rescue, Stunning Potter and taking Draco away to be healed before he could be brought to Pomfrey.

Draco rooted in his bag and pulled out the Map. He handed it over without looking up.

Potter flicked his wand, levitating the Map from Draco’s hand. ‘Wouldn’t want to catch your filth, Malfoy. Do you know any good cleaning spells, Hermione? We would have to disinfect this.’

Draco’s head snapped up. Potter had already turned away from him. Over his shoulder, Draco saw that Weasley and Granger were looking uneasy.

‘Ah, I can take it, Harry,’ Weasley said uncertainly, reaching out to take the Map.

‘No,’ Potter said, levitating the Map out of reach. ‘Don’t _touch_ it. It’s been touched by Malfoy scum. Come on then. I feel sicker every moment I spend breathing the same air as him. _Filth_.’ The last word he spat out in Draco’s direction, spittle landing on Draco’s chest.

The room was dead silent as the Golden Trio made their way out. It was only when Potter had gone that the other students began moving again. Most of them avoided Draco’s gaze. Zabini didn’t look at him when he left.

‘Blimey, what did you do, mate?’ Nott asked.

‘You’ve broken Potter,’ Millie said, sounding awed.

Draco ignored them, _Scourgify_ ing the front of his robes. When they saw that he was not going to reply, they left him too, muttering about ungrateful bastards. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder and headed straight for the seventh floor. Safely ensconced in the Room of Hidden Things, he threw himself into his work and the rest of the world melted away.

Most of the next three months passed in generally the same way: Draco went to class, went to Apparition lessons, went to the Room of Hidden Things, visited his bed every once in a while, visited the kitchens every once in a while, and went to the Room of Hidden Things.

He thought Potter would avoid him now; on the contrary, Potter now seemed all the more determined to catch him in the act. With the Map back in his hands, he was following Draco around everywhere now. Draco was always catching Potter at the corner of his eye.

He now had to station Crabbe and Goyle in various guises outside the Room to sound the alarm should they see Potter. Crabbe wasn’t happy about it, but Pansy managed to convince him to do it. Pansy was growing more and more worried about Draco; it made him miss his mother terribly.

‘You’re not eating enough,’ Pansy whispered, pushing a still-warm bun into his hands when he arrived late to Defence Against the Dark Arts one morning.

‘Thanks, Pans,’ he said and bit into the bun gratefully.

He looked up. Potter’s eyes, flat with hatred, were fixed on him. The bun tasted like dust.

He had gotten what he wanted in the end though, didn’t he? Potter paid attention to no one but him. Except Draco knew what it was like to taste Potter’s laughter on his lips and to feel Potter’s smile in his chest, and Potter’s attention now felt like hemlock poison searing against his skin. More than once, he wished Potter could just kill him.

He couldn’t think why Potter hadn’t told Dumbledore about the Amortentia and have him expelled. That would have made things so much easier for Potter, not having to see Draco around all the time. Then Draco remembered the smidgen of Slytherin there was inside Potter: of course, showing him just how much he was loathed was Potter’s revenge.

Because Potter was the one under Amortentia. _He_ couldn’t be held responsible for what he said when they were alone together. Draco hadn’t taken a drop of Amortentia from Potter. Everything Draco had said, he had meant, and Potter knew it.

A letter from home came in the middle of April. In Mother’s elegant hand were the words: _Your father is getting better, but he is getting impatient. Please hurry, my love. I fear we might not have much time left._ Draco crushed the letter and burned it at the table. Pansy yelped, waving the soot away from her hair. She opened her mouth to protest, but took one look at his face and shut up.

Draco spent the rest of the day in the Room, feverishly working on the Cabinet, ignoring his classes. He was close, he knew it, he was close to figuring out the linking spell. Once he knew it, it would be simple enough to fix the corruption and to cast the spell anew. The Cabinet would be fixed, his parents would be saved, and the Dark Lord would be happy because the Death Eaters would have a direct route into the impregnable heart of the wizarding world.

Draco paused, feeling a crack in his heart. He was washing up in Myrtle’s bathroom. He deserved a spot of dinner, he had thought. He stood still and closed his eyes, feeling the warm water gush over his hands. His chest hurt; Salazar, when had it ever stopped hurting since Potter found out he had been drugging him?

After he repaired the Cabinet, he would have to kill Dumbledore. His heart fractured further. Keeping his eyes closed, he probed along the fracture lines. He would kill Dumbledore, Wizarding Britain’s last hope against the Dark Lord, and leave Potter vulnerable and easy for the picking. Potter, dead, loose-limbed and white-skinned; never would he look at Draco with those brilliant green eyes and flash that smile that dared Draco to something equally rash.

He stifled a gasp of pain, opening his eyes, pressing his wet hand to his chest. Potter’s green eyes were staring at him in the mirror. He whirled around, drawing his wand. Potter fired off a hex. Draco ducked, diving for the ground, shouting, ‘ _Stupefy_!’

‘ _Protego_! _Expelliarmus_!’ Potter yelled back. He missed and the jet of light exploded behind Draco, shattering a mirror and smashing a sink. Water gushed out of the gaping hole, making it hard for Draco to find purchase and stand.

Gasping, soaking wet, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Potter was looking down at him, his face hard with cold fury. Draco opened his mouth, but Potter didn’t want to hear it, whatever it was he had to say (he didn’t know himself).

‘ _Sectumsempra_ ,’ Potter hissed. It sounded like Parseltongue.

Draco couldn’t think anymore about what it sounded like because his face and chest seared with fire. It was like a heated sword blade had been drawn across his face and chest from left to right, carving right to the bone. He staggered backwards, landing with a splash. He was gurgling wetly, his hands scrabbling across his front.

There was rapid splashing and Potter had dropped onto his knees next to Draco, his face soft with horror. ‘Malfoy – no –’ His hands were trembling against Draco’s chest. ‘No – I didn’t –’

A high-pitched screaming pierced the air. Moaning Myrtle had returned and she was sounding the alarm. ‘MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!’

Potter was shaking his head, his face wet. His fingers were ice-cold against Draco’s. ‘No – Malfoy, I didn’t mean to –’

The door banged open and Snape came running in. He looked murderous. He knelt down by Draco, shoving Potter aside roughly. Bending his head over Draco’s chest, he began murmuring an incantation. It was soft and soothing, almost like music. Draco could feel his wounds knitting themselves up, the fire dampening.

Myrtle was still sobbing and working herself up into a proper hysterical breakdown. Potter sat on his bum where Snape had pushed him and stared, keeping his eyes on Draco’s face. Draco couldn’t look away from him. The way Potter had looked when he thought he had killed Draco. The way he had _looked_.

After a while, Snape was helping Draco up into a standing position. ‘You need to go to the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that … come … And you, Potter … you wait here for me.’

Snape brought him down to the hospital wing, murmuring encouragements whenever Draco’s strength flagged. The pain was abated and the wounds mostly sealed up, but they still _hurt_.

Madam Pomfrey was expectedly horrified because there was so much blood and spoke of sending Draco to St Mungo’s immediately. Thank Merlin, Snape managed to convince her Draco’s wounds were healed, but he needed dittany and blood replenishment potions. The nurse bustled away to gather the potions.

Draco caught Snape’s sleeve before he left. ‘Potter didn’t mean to hurt me.’

Snape looked at him incredulously. ‘He almost killed you.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think he knew what the spell was going to do.’

‘Doesn’t matter. He almost killed you. Silly little prat, he has none of his mother’s brains. He has no idea what he’s doing …’ With that, Snape stalked off.

Pomfrey returned with the potions and insisted Draco spend a night in the hospital wing for observation. Exhausted, Draco gave in. He hoped she would prescribe him a Sleeping Potion; it would be strong enough to keep the nightmares away. She gave him fresh robes and when he changed, he took care of his left arm.

After she had gone, he lay in bed, drowsy but determined to cling onto wakefulness if just for a little while more. He would come, wouldn’t he? He would … Draco saw again Potter’s face, devastated by the truth of what he had done, and he forced himself awake.

Potter would come for him.

When at last Draco relinquished and slipped into the dream world, he let go of hope too. Potter had been horrified the same way he would be if he almost killed any other person. It didn’t matter that it was Draco.

Potter wouldn’t come for him.

Not anymore.


	13. Dissolution

**_\- Chapter Thirteen -_ **

**Dissolution**

 

Six months and twenty-eight days since Draco started working on the Cabinet, he succeeded. He was staring into the shadows, a puppet stitched together with threads of exhaustion ripping at the edges. His wand hung limp by his side. He didn’t think he could lift it up anymore. The last try had taken so much out of him.

He closed his dry, sore eyes, listening to the heavy silence of the Room. Then he heard it. Above the distant skittering of hidden rodents, there was a soft vague humming. It was more of a feeling than a sound, a pressure against the ears. Draco’s skin prickled, something akin to anxiety stirring in his stomach.

He opened his eyes again. The Cabinet stood before him, still balanced on stacks of old books, a dust-streaked door hanging off on rusty hinges. Yet … yet there was something different about it: a faint, bluish-white glow shimmering within the dark wood. Draco reached out. He stopped a centimetre away from the surface, his hand trembling, his entire arm shaking. He was too cold. He was too hot.

He pressed his palm against the wood.

Magic shot through his arm, singing in his blood, in his bones. There was heat and friction; it was like touching the sizzling edges of a wall of lightning. Magic, strong and pure and alive, ricocheted through his body, through his mind.

He had fixed it.

He had fixed the Vanishing Cabinet, and now the Death Eaters had a way into Hogwarts.

More out of astonishment than anything else, Draco collapsed onto the ground, his legs simply giving way beneath him. He sat in the dust and grime, his wand loose in his palm, staring unseeingly at the cupboard. He was trapped in his thoughts – the endless cycle that haunted his every waking and sleeping moment when he was not working on the Cabinet.

Three days ago, he had turned the corner and saw, framed by the large empty window, Potter and Ginny Weasley in the courtyard beyond. He knew, of course, that they were going out; there was nothing else people talked of for the past few weeks. Stupidly, like a Clabbert caught by Muggles, he froze. He stood there and looked because he had been avoiding looking at Potter for so long that missing the mere sight of the other boy was a physical ache.

Potter was holding Ginny Weasley by her arms, his body angled to face the window. He smiled down at her. Draco could just see the curve of her cheek; she was beaming back at him. Potter looked up and saw Draco in the shadowed corridor. Draco caught a glimpse of something dark and fanged flicker across Potter’s face before the dark-haired boy leaned in and proceeded to kiss Weasley, the pair of them lit by a pool of golden-yellow sunlight.

Draco turned away and walked down the corridor, Potter’s monster having ripped open his chest and taken his heart, raw and bleeding. He had been haunted by the sight of Potter’s face in that breath of a second: a monster made of darkness hiding within shadows. There was only the suggestion of it, an impression.

It ran in Draco’s nightmares, chasing after him, catching him, bursting through his chest and eating his heart. His sleeping mind knew the truth: Potter would destroy him, would kill him. He could fetch the Death Eaters, bring them into Hogwarts, kill Dumbledore – Potter wouldn’t stop him. Potter would only hunt him down later and personally kill him.

And when these thoughts ended, Narcissa Malfoy’s voice whispered into Draco’s mind: _Our guest performed a kindness for your father last night. He is impatient for your task to be completed so that he may reward you in the same way._ A letter, dated last week, tear-stained, a quiver in Mother’s usually elegant hand.

Draco crumpled up, pressing his wet face into the grimy floor, not wanting to consider the aspect of the Vanishing Cabinet any longer. He felt like he had tried to Apparate into Hell and Splinched himself right down the middle of his chest. He could reach in and consider his weakly pulsing heart, swollen and wretched with misuse. He could trace every vein and valve and know he would only come to a single conclusion.

He sat up, slow and painful, his every joint aching. Rooting in his pocket, he pulled out the coin spelled with the Protean Charm. The message to Rosmerta, which she would in turn transmit to the Death Eaters, read: _The way is clear._

Draco could already feel the green-eyed creature made of shadows and hatred looming behind him, its claws dripping with his blood. He closed his eyes. Only, he knew he wouldn’t run. He would turn and look at him, because he wanted the last thing he saw before he died to be Harry Potter.

 

* * *

 

Everything had gone right and everything had gone wrong.

The Death Eaters were in the castle. Draco was appalled to see Greyback step out of the Cabinet. The werewolf grinned at him and said, ‘Lots of succulent little pieces for me tonight, eh, Malfoy?’

Then Yaxley appeared and shoved Greyback out of the way. The older man looked at Draco with a bald look of loathing. ‘Complete the job, little Malfoy … your parents are waiting for you …’ He gave Draco a nasty smile that sent klaxons screaming in his head.

Soon as he led the Death Eaters out of the Room of Hidden Things and into the corridor, alarm spells pierced the air with their screaming. Hogwarts was apparently warded against Dark Marks, those that weren’t on students and teachers at least.

‘You’ve fucked up, Malfoy!’ Yaxley shouted, shoving Draco. ‘Lead the way to Dumbledore’s office! Greyback, Amycus, Alecto, come with us. The rest of you – spread out – remember our mission: spread chaos, my brothers and sisters!’

With triumphant whoops, the Death Eaters peeled away, speeding off down the corridor, some of them already firing explosive spells as they went. Yaxley pushed Draco again. ‘Go on!’ he snarled.

Gripping his wand, his teeth gritted, Draco started down the corridor. He didn’t have the chance to check if Potter was safe, but he knew he would be. Here in Dumbledore’s stronghold, there was no doubt he would expend all resources to keep his protégé safe. But – a splinter of doubt – Draco, an unqualified student, did manage the impossible.

Yaxley blasted the gargoyle apart. They clambered up the frozen staircase and burst onto – a silent empty office. Dumbledore clearly hadn’t been in his office in hours. The Carrows surged in, tearing into the back rooms. Dumbledore wasn’t in bed either. Swearing, Yaxley cast a Location spell.

He whirled around to grab Draco’s collar. ‘You stupid little fool – he isn’t even in Hogwarts!’

‘He – he can’t be –’ Draco gasped, bewildered.

Yaxley shook him. ‘He _isn’t_! Where is he?’

‘If he’s not here – if he’s gone,’ Draco’s mind was spinning, his thoughts randomly connecting, disconnecting. Potter would be in Dumbledore’s office for hours for those private lessons. Potter couldn’t be with Dumbledore _now_ , could he? ‘If he’s gone, he would have to come back. We just – we just have to set a trap for him.’

Yaxley stared at him and slowly nodded. He released Draco and Draco coughed, rubbing his neck. The burly blond waved with his wand, indicated for Draco to lead the way. The eyes of the others on his back, Draco hurried down corridors and up stairs.

All around them, the castle walls wailed, the lamps flickering. Intermittently, he heard whoops and screams and shouts. The sounds of fights echoed down corridors, warped and twisted by distance; it was like a horde had descended upon Hogwarts.

They neared the Astronomy Tower. Draco pelted around the corner and felt his heart jump into his throat. A mixture of professors and students were coming down from the other way. Somebody spotted Draco and the Death Eaters and shouted. A spell cracked the wall next to his face.

‘ _Protego_ ,’ he whispered as over his shoulder, Yaxley yelled out, ‘ _Reducto_!’

The fight erupted around him. He kept his head down and ran, casting the Shield Charm repeatedly until it was like an incantation. Somehow, he made it to the stairs leading up the Astronomy Tower in one piece. He twisted around, looking over his shoulder at the fight.

A streak of red-gold fire caught his eye. It was Ginny Weasley, her pretty face hard with determination and rage as she battled Amycus Carrow. Draco’s stomach twisted. He was tempted to reach out for her, to take her out of the fight. She had to be safe for Potter. A spell shot over his shoulder, blasting the wall behind him, and he knew he had to go.

He spun around and ran up the spiralling stairs.

The night air was freezing cold against Draco’s heated skin. For a moment, he was caught by the perfection of the night sky – the liberal swaths of stars, the completeness of the universe. His hand shaking, Draco pointed his wand into the sky and shouted, ‘ _Morsmordre_ ,’ and the sky was a scarred thing.

Then he withdrew into the shadows and waited.

Potter was indeed with Dumbledore. They arrived on broomsticks, sweeping over the crenelated ramparts and landing not two metres away from Draco. By the sickly green light of the Dark Mark, Dumbledore looked ghastly. He was pale – too pale – and he listed to one sight, clutching that horrible blackened hand of his to his chest. Potter looked up at the Dark Mark, his face fixed in a rictus of fear.

‘He’s done something, Professor. Malfoy’s done something.’

It took only a moment before Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes swung in Draco’s direction. ‘Ah, Draco …’ Dumbledore sounded slightly disappointed, the patronising old git.

Potter wheeled around, eyes wide, hand reaching to draw his wand. ‘Malfoy?’

Draco cast a non-verbal Disarming Spell and was surprised when he succeeded; Dumbledore and Potter’s wands sailed to the other end of the ramparts, clattering against the stones. Potter shouted in dismay. Draco stepped out of the shadows, his palms damp and sweaty, and raised his wand to point at Dumbledore.

The Headmaster had taken a step back and was leaning against the wall, face white as bone. ‘Who did you bring into the castle?’

‘You stupid fucking _twat_ ,’ Potter snarled, about to charge Draco before Dumbledore held out a hand. ‘Professor, I can take him –’

‘Let him speak,’ Dumbledore said weakly.

His eyes black with hatred and loathing, Potter obeyed. He withdrew to Dumbledore’s side, his fists clenched and his entire body a tight twist of tension; a lion barely restrained by its master. Draco kept his eyes on Dumbledore.

‘Who did you bring into the castle?’ Dumbledore repeated calmly.

‘Yaxley, Greyback, the Carrows … there are others. I don’t know who they are.’

Below them, the sound of battle simmered on, an occasional outburst of spells and things shattered. Potter’s eyes darted to the door, as if itching to join the battle. Draco thought of Ginny Weasley risking her life downstairs with a throb of guilt.

Dumbledore was considering him with placid blue eyes, as if Draco was standing before him in the office, sent by another professor to receive punishment from a higher authority. ‘Why are you doing this, Draco?’

‘He will kill my parents if I don’t do this,’ Draco said.

Potter’s green-fire eyes snapped back to him. ‘I told you we could help. I _told_ you we could help – you didn’t have to do this. You don’t have to kill people.’

Draco ignored him, steadying his wand at Dumbledore’s chest. ‘I have to kill you, old man.’

Dumbledore smiled, that irritating patronising smile of his. ‘Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.’

‘How do you know?’ Draco asked without heat, genuinely curious. ‘I have done … terrible things to get what I want. Isn’t this expected of a Slytherin?’

The ancient wizard’s face was abruptly twisted with regret. ‘Ah … that perhaps would be Voldemort’s lasting legacy: the taint of Slytherin House. Did you know … before Voldemort, there wasn’t such a definitive divide between the Houses? In fact, most of the times, Slytherins and Gryffindors made fast friends. No … no, in fact, House did not matter. We were … one. One Hogwarts.’

As he spoke, his voice faltered. It seemed that wherever Dumbledore and Potter had gone, it had weakened the great wizard – vastly so. Potter stepped closer to Dumbledore, but his master shook his head, waving him away.

The night air gusted around them, stealing under Draco’s robes. He shivered and lifted his hand a little higher. He would have to finish this soon.

‘Before you do anything, would you listen to this old man’s story?’ Dumbledore asked abruptly. ‘It is one I have never told anyone else and I would hate for it to die with me. Will you listen to me?’

Draco didn’t reply, merely stared. Potter stared at the Headmaster incredulously.

‘After I finished school, I went back to my village. It’s a tiny place, Mould-on-the-Wold, a wizarding village, although there was a Muggle town nearby. There are so many pockets of us scattered all through the country … but I digress. I returned to Mould-on-the-Wold to care for my younger siblings. I was bored … I felt … tethered, burdened, when I wanted so much to be exploring the world with my friends.

‘Then one day … my saviour appeared. Bathilda Bagshot – the author of _A History of Magic_ , boys – had a great-nephew and he was a brilliant man, quite a brilliant man. The magic he could do, the ideas he had – he wasn’t like anybody I had ever met before. I loved him,’ Dumbledore said frankly. ‘And I believe he loved me too … well, for a period, at least.’

Draco and Potter were both riveted now. The Headmaster smiled wryly. When he was talking about his lover, he sounded stronger, his words not tattered at the end like rags.

‘We don’t have a happy ending, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Or you would have already met him. Towards the end, my younger brother, Aberforth, protested our relationship. He thought I was spending too much time with my lover and too little time with our family. He was upset and jealous and … I wasn’t a good brother – no, I’m still a terrible brother. A fight broke out between the three of us – my lover, Abe, and I – and … my younger sister Ariana was killed.’

Potter inhaled sharply, as if he had just realised something. Dumbledore didn’t look at him, didn’t look at either of them. He was gazing out into the star-strewn sky, eyes shining with unshed tears.

‘He left me. He destroyed my family, but what I couldn’t – what I can never forgive him for is that he _left_ me,’ Dumbledore’s voice broke. ‘It’s ridiculous because I know now that he was destructive and … terrible. Brilliant, but so terrible. He’s the reason I know to spot the signs in Voldemort,’ he said, abruptly conversational. ‘He’s Gellert Grindelwald.’

The silence atop the Astronomy Tower was complete.

Above them, the stars were singing, a wild song where the warp and weft were light and darkness and infinities. The Dark Mark glimmered down darkly on the ramparts and castle walls, an ugly, ugly stain.

Potter looked ashen. He stared at the Headmaster as if he could not decide to vomit or scream. Draco felt numb, his disbelief lapping at his ice-cold skin. Dumbledore smiled at their reactions.

‘Yes, I had to destroy him,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘How could you?’ Potter’s voice was soft.

‘He was going to destroy the world,’ Dumbledore said. ‘You should be glad, Harry, that Draco’s ambitions are limited: he only wishes for his family and he to live.’

Before either of them could respond, the door burst open.

Dumbledore hissed, ‘Your _cloak_ , Harry!’ Potter swiftly disappeared, but Draco knew that there was no way that Snape, the first person through the door, hadn’t seen Harry Potter disappear on the ramparts next to Dumbledore. Miraculously, Snape strode forward, eyes darting between Draco and Dumbledore. Draco caught a flash of relief before Snape fixed his customary sneer on his hook-nosed face.

Yaxley, Greyback and the Carrows tumbled out behind Snape. Yaxley seized Draco immediately. He shook him roughly, sending Draco’s teeth clacking in his head.

‘You’ve been up here all along and you haven’t killed the old coot yet? You useless imbecile!’ Yaxley shouted and shoved Draco forward, sending him stumbling. ‘Go on, do it then!’

‘Ah, Severus,’ Dumbledore said pleasantly, no doubt sure that his faithful servant had come to save him.

Snape stared at him, face twisted with revulsion and deep-set resentment. ‘Dumbledore. You look wretched.’

Dumbledore spread open his arms, shrugging. ‘Old age, my dear boy. Old age.’

‘Then a simple shove should do it,’ Yaxley hissed, prodding Draco in the back. ‘Go on, Malfoy, _do it_. You have to be the one to do it. Don’t you try to help him, Snape!’

‘Don’t touch the boy,’ Snape said coolly, pointing his wand at the brute. ‘Keep your hands off him, you pathetic little shit.’

Yaxley snarled wordlessly, fingers flexing to wrap around Snape’s scrawny neck, but Severus Snape was a character such that even mindless thugs like Yaxley knew to fear. Snape wasn’t the kind to let a grudge go; he let it fester and he turned it into poison.

He turned back to Dumbledore, who was still smiling lightly.

‘Well, Severus?’ Dumbledore said, his voice soft. Almost pleading.

Draco’s stomach twisted and he could taste bile in his throat.

‘Severus …’ the old man said again. Snape stared at him, eyes black as stone in the cold, cold night.

Draco was clutching his wand so hard, his fingernails were drawing blood in his palms.

‘Severus … please …’

Snape was raising his wand. He pointed it directly at Dumbledore’s chest. Draco wanted to close his eyes, to forget this world. Potter was here somewhere. Was he going to do something? How could this end in any other way? Draco’s mind was cold and white as starlight.

At the same time Snape said, ‘ _Avada Kedavra_ ,’ Potter’s voice rang out, ‘ _Expelliarmus_!’ And instead of Snape’s wand, the spell rebounded off a Shield and hit Draco. Draco’s wand went flying and he could not muster the strength to care. Yaxley did, however. He cried out, ‘There’s someone here! Who’s here?’

Nobody answered him. Everybody was watching as Dumbledore’s body was blasted clear over the ramparts, sailing through the air and disappearing into the darkness beyond. Draco had seen the dead blue eyes, no longer twinkling like the stars above. For a desperate moment, he hoped that the tales of a soul being a star upon death were true so at least, Dumbledore – the great man that he was, quite annoying, but great nonetheless – was on his way to somewhere beautiful.

Then Snape was grabbing Draco’s arm and shepherding the rest of the Death Eaters down the stairs. Behind them, a voice screamed, animalistic and eerie. Draco tried to turn, but Snape wouldn’t let him.

‘ _GO_!’ he roared at the hesitating Death Eaters, stabbing his wand in their direction and destroying a wall. They didn’t hesitate after that, not even Yaxley; Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore. He yanked Draco after him.

‘ _MALFOY – MALFOY!_ ’

Potter had ripped off his Cloak and was brandishing his retrieved wand from the other side. He was tripping, staggering over to them. The hand clamped tight around Draco’s waist tugged him down the stairs. Snape locked the door behind them, screaming at Draco to _MOVE_.

Draco moved. Images flew past his eyes: a body strewn in their path; blackened marks on castle walls; students huddled wide-eyed and frightened in a corridor; a Death Eater screaming on the ground, hands clutched to his face; the doors to the Entrance Hall blasted open.

They ran down the steps and to the Lawn. Somewhere, further down, something was on fire and Hagrid was bellowing in rage. Draco didn’t turn to look; Snape urged him on. Draco’s lungs were constricted, his legs burning liquid fire – but he had to run.

They were nearing the gates.

‘ _MALFOY – DON’T LEAVE WITH HIM – MALFOY – COME BACK, COME BACK TO ME!’_ Potter screamed for him.

Snape jabbed a wand to the back of Draco’s neck. ‘ _Imperio_.’

It was an invasion like Draco had never felt; Snape’s will was an army of thousands against his force of a single knight. He was an observer in a vessel where control had been violently wrested from him. From a distant, he watched as his body ran towards the gates, head looking on straight forward, a vast black ocean of despair lapping at his consciousness. Behind him, Snape had turned around to face Harry Potter.

Draco tripped and he was beyond the gates. Harry Potter’s soul-wrenching scream, ‘ _DRACO!_ ’, was the last thing he heard before he obeyed Snape’s command and spun into the inexorable darkness of Disapparition.

 

* * *

 

They were waiting for him in the foyer.

The Malfoy Manor grounds were silent as tombs. The peacocks had gone. Draco hoped they had fled to a better place. He walked up to the flagstone path to the open front doors, pushed one half of the door open and walked into the enormous foyer.

Voldemort stood at the bottom of the stairs sweeping up to the second floor, his great dirty snake Nagini curled around his shoulders. Aunt Bellatrix stood to Voldemort’s left, her face twisted with madness, eyes fixed to the forms in front of her master. His parents knelt at Lord Voldemort’s feet.

Above them, the chandelier swung gently on the breeze Draco let in, sending shadows dancing across the black-and-white mosaic on the floor. Voldemort slid in and out of darkness, his red eyes shiny as rubies plucked from the bloodied, torn hands of children miners.

His parents turned when he came in, bodies twisting to look at him. His father had wasted away in Azkaban, his face now a death skull, and there was an obvious tremor to his limbs. Draco hadn’t seen his father in nearly a year and he couldn’t recognise him. Lucius tried to smile at Draco and his lips cracked, a trickle of blood slipping down his chin.

His mother was crying silently – the stars wheeling in the night sky outside captured and placed on her white cheeks – her pale blue eyes wide and bereft. She reached out both arms for him, her hands clawed as if she was unable to straighten them after hours of clenching them in an effort to bear the torture. Her face – her beautiful, soft, beloved face – looked misaligned; something within her had slipped irrevocably.

His lovely mother had been broken.

That was when Draco knew there wasn’t any hope.

‘You have failed. _You_ did not kill Albus Dumbledore. You have not restored the Malfoy name. Pity,’ Voldemort said without pity. He pointed his wand at Lucius Malfoy, who was still gazing at his son, his pride and joy, the heir to the Malfoy name. ‘ _Avada Kedavra_.’

The shell that was Draco’s father crumbled to the ground, an empty home, its owner fled to join the numberless stars in the sky. Narcissa Malfoy’s mouth opened, curled out the words: _I love you._ Her blue eyes were eloquent with her grief.

‘ _Avada Kedavra_.’

Narcissa Malfoy was dead before her head hit the ground. Bellatrix Lestrange stuffed her fists into her mouth, muffling the sudden keening noise that emerged wild and beastly from her. ‘ _CISSY!_ ’

Draco stood in the doorway of his childhood home and stared at the creature that had taken it over. The monster that wanted to take over the rest of the wizarding world. Lord Voldemort stared at him with cold, pitiless red eyes.

‘That was ingenious of you to seduce Potter,’ said the Dark Lord, words hissing out sibilantly between thin, pale lips. ‘Unfortunately, as the old Muggle adage goes, when you lay down with dogs, you come up with fleas.’ He raised his wand to point at Draco.

Regret twisted in Draco’s chest, exquisite in its pain, like a glass splinter had grown in his heart. He had so wanted the last thing he saw to be Harry Potter. He looked at his lover’s greatest enemy and knew that Harry Potter would eventually prevail. He could win this war.

Because Draco’s boy was a Hero, in the truest sense of the word.

Draco Malfoy smiled and waited for the green light that would send him to the stars in the sky.

 

**_\- End -_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to you guys for reading!
> 
> Is this the end? ;)


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